Roundabout
by Devil Piglet
Summary: Buffy channels her inner psycho, sending Spike and Dawn on the run. But a little homicidal mania never stood in Buffy and Spike's way before...(Post Hell's Bell's)
1. BadBrain

_Title: _Roundabout

_Author: _Serpentine 

_Rating: _R

_Disclaimer: _All characters of 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' are used without permission.

_Author's Notes: _This is set post-'Hell's Bells', and while it overlaps some themes of 'Normal Again', for my purposes, the events in that episode haven't occurred.

_Feedback: _This is my first story posted to fanfiction.net.  I'd appreciate reviews: devilpiglet@yahoo.com.

_Website_: http://www.geocities.com/devilpiglet

***************************************

Buffy stared, disbelieving.

She had dishpan hands.

Okay, so maybe in the larger scheme of things lately, this wasn't top priority.  She had recently broken the heart of her evil (_Are you sure?_ her rebellious brain questioned) undead sometime-ally; her little sister was riding the Sunnydale Metro Express to juvenile delinquency; freaking Xander had just left Anya at the altar; and…what else?  Oh, yeah: she was flat broke despite holding two very messy and potentially lethal full-time jobs.

But her hands…cracked and careworn, making her afraid to look in the mirror for fear the rest of her would the same…this somehow seemed more devastating now than anything than had gone down in the last few, frantic weeks.  

_Anything? _BadBrain piped up again, and Buffy slammed a dinner plate into the soapy water.  The dishpan hands were her own fault, she knew.  Buffy resolutely washed her hands each time she dusted a vamp or cleaned a grease trap.  Yes, her mother would be very proud.  Obsessive cleanliness (_Transference issues?_ BadBrain asked innocently) surely made up for her many screwups with Dawn and the fact that the bank had very nearly foreclosed on the house.

She'd barely scratched the surface of her twenties, Buffy thought resentfully, and what was she doing?  Standing over a kitchen sink with a leaky faucet, scrubbing dishes and blowing ineffectually at the wayward strands of hair that kept pushing their way into her eyes.  

Might as well put on the faded floral apron, house slippers, and air of suffering and complete the picture.  What picture?  Hmm…something starring Sissy Spacek as a destitute farm widow, maybe.  

Great, now BadBrain was rambling.  

BadBrain was very much on her shit list these days, for a variety of reasons.  BadBrain complained bitterly about housework; She had little patience for Her friends' various emotional crises; She cared less every day about staying on the good side of the manager of the Doublemeat.  

She kept Buffy awake at night with images of finely chiseled limbs and blue eyes; with the sounds of flesh meeting flesh amid groans of pleasure, and words of love whispered in a sex-roughened accent.

She missed him.

She was allowed to admit that, wasn't she?  She'd done the right thing, after all.  Sent the bad (_in all the right ways, mmmm_) bloodsucker packing, taken one for the team and all that.  Even if it was a team she was heartily tired of playing on.  And he'd made it easy on her, hadn't he?  With his silly scheme ('I can get money…This place'll kill you')….was she just supposed to overlook that?

_Like you did for Willow? Who endangered Dawn in a way that Spike never would, not in a million years?  Willow's black mojo almost makes you an only child – again – and she gets to crash in Mom's old room.  Spike has a relapse, and you kick him to the curb with the teary self-righteous act.  _

_Excellent choice_, BadBrain concluded. _ Looks like it's working for you. (Snicker.)_

"Grrrrrrr…"  Buffy whirled around, searched for the source of the menacing growl and found that it was her.  She shut off the water and peered out the window over the sink.  Dusk was approaching.  Time to get Dawn settled in and then head out for patrol.

***************************************

Dawn's footfalls sounded loud and stumbling to her own ears.  She imagined her pursuer could hear the crack of every twig and bramble, every branch that slapped Dawn's face as the girl fled, terrified.

She'd felt safer, ridiculously, when she'd entered the cemetery, but Dawn knew she was fooling herself.  She was being hunted, systematically, by a relentless predator – one who knew this ground intimately.  

Dawn willed her feet to run faster.

***************************************

Spike heard the harsh pants of exertion before they reached his door.  

He'd been lying in bed, debating whether or not he had the energy to get up and and scavenge the place for another bottle.  He'd been keeping close company with Johnnie Walker Black, and wanted his buddy back for some more quality time.  What else to do, anyway?  He wasn't much for sleep these days – it was starting to show, too – so getting pissed was the next obvious choice.  Since killing, maiming and exsanguinating were out, at least.

He sniffed the air, hoping to suss out friend or foe.  But it was saturated by the stench of alcohol, and he could only detect the faintest whiff of a human nearby.

Someone coming, he thought with uncharacteristic detachment.  Let them come.  His home was trashed, and the remnants of his love life made the crypt look like Buckingham Bloody Palace.  So let the Queen herself come.

Instead it was the Little Princess, tearing inside as if the hounds of hell were on her heels.  Dawn burst through the door, long limbs flailing, nearly tripping over her own feet in her haste.  Poor kid hasn't grown into her own body yet, Spike thought in liquor-blurred sympathy.  Then he saw her face.  

"What's wrong?"  He caught her before she went skidding across the smooth stone floor.  "Jesus, Mary and Joseph, girl, what's wrong with you?"  Her face was bruised, and her matted hair stuck to small superficial cuts on her face.  Identical cuts dotted her bare arms.  He didn't want to think about what the rest of her might look like.  The whisky fuzz was wiped from his brain as if it had never been.

"Dawn!"  Could she speak to him?  She had to speak to him.  "Tell me who did this to you.  Tell me, sweet.  Was it a demon?  Some nasty for the Big Bad to take down?  Dawn, talk to me…"

"Buffy," was all she could gasp out.  "Buffy, Buffy, Buffy, Buffy…"

_Oh, God._  Not again.  He felt that awful thing in the pit of his stomach, that sick clenching that started the moment he saw Buffy's body lying at the bottom of a tower amid construction rubble.  _Not again_.

"What happened to her?  Dawn?"

"Buffy, Buffy, Buffy. Buffy…."

He nearly screamed in frustration.  Years with Dru, though, had taught him how to siphon information from even the most incoherent source.  He took Dawn's hand – gently, carefully – and led her to the nearest sarcophagus.  With his help she perched atop it, and took deep, shuddering breaths.  He waited, about to crawl out of his own skin, and then she spoke.

"She was fine," Dawn said dully.  

"Who was?  Buffy?"  Dawn nodded.

"She made me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner and told me to go study for my Bio quiz.  When I went upstairs she was running hot water for the dishes."

Spike recognized shock when he saw it, and the kid was treading perilously close.  He wanted to take her to a doctor, do the smart thing and hand her over to someone who could help her more than a clumsy amoral vampire could.  But he had to know if it was safe first.

"Like, an hour later she knocks at my door.  Which – Buffy never does that.  Hello?  And when she comes in, she's all – all –" Dawn gestured down her body – "covered in blood.  Just…covered.  And she's smiling.  Oh, God…"  

Dawn brought her knees up to her chest and buried her face in the hollow created there.  Spike could hear the hitching sobs, the building hysteria.  He was still clueless, however.

"She was talking, but not talking, not really…about Willow, and Xander, and Tara.  She wasn't making sense; they were crazy, awful things she said…And she hit me."

"Buffy hit you?"

"She knocked me off the bed.  It _hurt._  And then she was standing over me and I was kicking at her but she wouldn't stop coming and she was on top of me and I couldn't move and I was kicking…I don't know how I got away but I ran down Revello to Baker and she was right behind me.  I ran all over the neighborhood.  She just kept cutting me off, everywhere I turned.  I lost her just before the cemetery –" Dawn was babbling, the words pouring out of her like sludge from a gutter.  At least that's how it sounded to Spike.

"Stop talking nonsense," Spike hissed.  "This is some made-up story to get your sister into trouble.  Did a boy do this to you?  Some little wanker you snuck off with?"

"No!"

"Give me the bastard's name.  We're going to march you straight back home and then I'm going to sort this out."  He pulled her off the sarcophagus, Dawn resisting all the way.  

"I'm telling you the truth!"

"The 'Bot, then.  Got her circuits fried and went all HAL 9000 on you."

Dawn shook her head frantically.  "I thought – but there's no way.  She's in, like, a million pieces.  Willow keeps her in a box underneath the basement stairs.  I saw it when I did laundry yesterday."

Spike pressed white-knuckled fists to his eyes.  "No."

"You've got to do something, Spike.  Make her right again.  _Please_, Spike."  

Before he could answer, a feather-light sigh echoed off the walls of the crypt.  "Once again," came the sweet, mildly exasperated voice, "there's something wrong with Buffy."

Spike and Dawn turned.  Dawn cowered behind him while Spike took in the apparition that had appeared at his door.

Buffy wasn't covered in blood, she was drenched in it.  It adorned her skin like scarlet warpaint and made the white gleam of her smile seem unnaturally bright.  She moved toward them sinously, all catlike grace and rapacious intent.

"Pet," Spike said with practiced ease.  "Kid sis and I were just having ourselves a little talk.  She's been catching me up on all the news."  _Please, Buffy.  Yell at me for corrupting your sister, threaten to stake me, remind me how I'm a filthy evil creature that you can never love.  _

But she didn't say anything.  She merely lunged for Dawn.

Spike blocked her successfully, and then it was time for the rough 'n' tumble, so terribly reminiscent of their ferocious shag sessions.  Grunts, bodies slamming, the crunching of bones and furniture.             

Except this wasn't his Buffy, and he wasn't sure how this encounter would end.

She was straddling him now, and in his brain, Lust was having a throw-down with Survival Instinct.  Buffy sensed it.  Giggling playfully, she bucked against him.

"Ready to go?" she asked.  "I don't mind an audience."

_Jesus._

He tossed her off him, then stood in the middle of the room, watching her.  She lifted herself up cautiously, using the wall as leverage.  Soon enough, though, that casual confidence returned, and she ran one blood-slickened hand through her hair.  Undaunted, she moved to him again.    

"Come on, lover," she smiled.  "Get down with the sickness."

He stood immobile, rooted to the spot as surely as if she'd nailed his feet to the floor.  She moved closer, and despite his growing dread Spike felt every fiber and sinew of his being rejoice at her nearness.  _BuffyBuffyBuffyBuffy_…even his dead blood joined in the singing.

"Talk to me, love.  Tell me what's happened and we'll – we'll fix it."

"Later," she answered.  "First I have to…"  She made another grab for Dawn but Spike sidestepped her.  He waited, feeling more helpless with every passing second.

"Let me have her," Buffy whispered seductively, trailing her fingers along his bare chest.  "Just let me finish this one little thing –" she flicked an amused glance at Dawn – "and then we'll be together.  It'll be so good, Spike, so very, very good.  You remember how it can be between us, don't you? 

"And the _killing_," she went on.  "I know you miss it, baby.  I know you crave it like you crave blood.  Like I crave you.  We can burn this town to the ground.  Spike,"  she said earnestly, urgently.  "Spike, I get it now.  I was such a little fool before, so wrong, so bad to you, my baby."  

Spike cocked his head, torn.  Encouraged, Buffy continued.

"I didn't understand how the blood – their blood – pulls at you, pulls 'til all you can think of is ripping their throats out, watching the life drain away –" The mania in her gaze flared and then faded, replaced by a a sexy pout.  "Baby, don't make me do it alone."

He swallowed convulsively.  

Behind him, Dawn whimpered.

Spike didn't recognize his own voice when he finally spoke.  "Get out.  Turn around now and I won't come after you.  You have my word.  But if you try to touch Dawn, I will cut you down.  I promise you, on the graves of those other two Slayers, I will not stop until you're in pieces.  Your choice, Buffy."

The words were like bile leaving his mouth.  This wasn't right, this was all wrong.  He should tie her down, beat some sense into her if that's what it took.  He shouldn't let her leave his sight.

But Buffy was strong; so very, very strong.  He could fight her, and maybe hold his own.  But he couldn't protect Dawn at the same time.  And that's who Buffy really had eyes for.

She seemed to be engaged in some sort of internal struggle as she studied him.  He waited, fists clenched at his sides and ready to fly.  There was a broadsword behind the sarcophagus, he thought to himself, but the axe was downstairs.  He'd have to get Dawn on her way, into the sewers, before he and Buffy began their battle in earnest –

"Have it your way, then."  Buffy's tone was brittle, full of false lightness.  "I hope you two are very happy together."  Those eyes, those eyes that were Buffy's and yet not, locked again on Dawn.  "Be seeing you, Dawnie."  Spike turned in time for Dawn's choked gasp.  He wanted to comfort her but now was not the time.  He looked back at Buffy.

"Go," he ground out.  She bestowed one more sexy little smile on him, then sauntered to the front door of the crypt and then out to the fathomless night beyond.

When he was sure she was well and truly gone, when she was undetectable to his heightened senses, he let out an unnecessary breath.  He rubbed his hands over his face, once, and permitted himself a single brief moment to shut his eyes and rail against the injustice of it all.  Then he opened his eyes, blinked away that stinging – it was _nothing_, dust in his eyes – and walked over to Dawn.

She was shell-shocked, trauma making her face slack and limbs rubbery.  "Dawn."  He shook her but she didn't respond.  "Dawn!"

Her head whipped up to stare at him.  

"Buffy?"  She jerked out of his grasp and began a jerky, blind walk to the door through which Buffy had disappeared.  "We have to go after her, Spike, we have to find her –"

He caught up to her, yanking her roughly back from the threshold of the crypt.  "Don't be daft."  He cursed himself as soon as the words were out of his mouth.  Gently now, he went on, "We can't risk it, Dawn.  She's –" he groped for words.  Where was William's sugary pap now?  In the end he settled for brutal honesty.  Hell, it always worked with the sister.

"That's not Buffy."

They stood there for long moments, Spike gripping her arm tightly, Dawn struggling for control.  Then the tears broke, as he knew they would, and she was sobbing violently in his arms as he gathered her up like a limp rag doll.  He rocked her until the spasms subsided, then pulled back and wiped the tears from her face as best he could.

"What – what – where'm I gonna…."  She trailed off, taking enormous hiccuping gulps of breath.  

"We have to get out of here.  Out of Sunnydale.  Do you understand, Dawn?  Do you get that we have to leave?"

"The others…"

He nodded.  "I know."  

_To be continued._


	2. No Vacancy

_Title: _Roundabout

_Author: _Serpentine

_Rating: _R

_Disclaimer: _All characters of 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' are used without permission.

_Author's Notes: _This is set post-'Hell's Bells', and while it overlaps some themes of 'Normal Again', for my purposes, the events in that episode haven't occurred.

_Feedback: _This is my first story posted to fanfiction.net.  I'd appreciate reviews: devilpiglet@yahoo.com.

_Website_: http://www.geocities.com/devilpiglet

***************************************

Spike was rarely accused of being practical, but over a century of un-life some lessons he'd learned had stuck.  His and Dru's penchant for making themselves unwelcome had taught him the art of timely escape.  He kept a getaway bag at the ready, crammed full of necessities, small valuables that could be sold easily, and those odd little items that life on the road demanded.  

He'd stowed the bag when he moved into the crypt and then forgotten about it; it was the only way he was able to resist the temptation to rifle through it when he was hard up for smokes or blood.  And he'd shown admirable restraint, hadn't he?  Not even a little nip, all this time.

Well, pretty much.

When he'd seen, up close, Buffy's new life at that benighted burger joint he'd been ready to dump the bag and all its contents on the counter of the first pawnbroker in town.  Screw his escape clause; if the trinkets he'd collected over the years could buy Buffy out of that hellhole it would have been worth it times ten.

But, of course, she'd brushed him off.  Let him shag her sideways in the alley outside, but help her?  Forget it.  

The upshot being that his stash remained untouched, for an occasion such as this.  Now he shot a glance at Dawn.  He hadn't exactly been planning on taking a teenaged girl along for the ride.  

"Dawn?"

She turned her terrified face to his.

"Can you – is it safe to go back to the house?"  He steeled himself against her stricken expression.  "We're going to be traveling for…a while.  You'll want your things.  Clothes and such."

Finally, the slightest dip of her chin.  "Okay."

He bundled her into the car and pressed the duffel into her hands, more to give her something to hang onto than any other reason.  She gripped the bag's handles fiercely, knuckles whitened. 

He gunned the engine and headed for Revello Drive.

Dawn was in and out of the house before Spike finished his first cigarette.  Of course, it took him longer than normal to smoke it.  What with the shaking hands and all.  

He made a path for Harris' apartment.  He'd actually been there a few times, over the summer, when old grudges were forgotten in favor of the shared masking of grief.  Anya had sniffed something about biologically inherited male repression and disappeared into the bedroom while Xander and Spike parked themselves on the couch and watched ESPN or TV Land.  

He'd heard demon girl had taken off after the non-nuptials, so Spike assumed she'd been spared whatever carnage had been wreaked by this new incarnation of Buffy Summers.  That left Harris, Willow and Tara.

Thinking about all this made his head hurt.  There was a reason vampires didn't play well with others.  Even for the chipped variety, of whom Spike was the single unhappy representative, concern for the wellbeing of Humans Who Are Not Buffy Or Dawn was a struggle.

He never made it to the apartment.  As Spike made the left turn onto Waverly Dawn spied the blue-red pulse of police lights down the street.  "Look!"

The Magic Box was now just another Sunnydale crime scene; yellow tape cordoned off the front door, although there was nothing left worth stealing.  The shop was a burned-out husk.  He parked several yards away and got out.  One look at Dawn told him she would stay put.  He kept the car, and her little white face peering anxiously out the window, in his sights as he approached what was left of the store.

The acrid smell of fire and damp, that pungent, peculiar mix so characteristic of tragedy, asaulted his senses.  He stepped gingerly around the debris and the more sharp-eyed of cops and approached a female EMT.

A few minutes later he was back in the car.  He sat for a moment, mouth set in a grim line.  "They were all inside.  Just them, though.  No customers."  He suspected Buffy had gathered them there, but that wasn't something he was about to share with Dawn.  "They were…attacked, then the place was torched."

"Are they…?"

"They were alive when the ambulance left."  He exhaled slowly, weariness pushing the useless breath from his lungs.  "We really have to go now.  'Kay?"

But she had retreated into herself, shrinking back against the battered leather upholstery and fixing her gaze somewhere in the distance.  He started the car again and drove off.

***************************************

_Waitwaitwait__…Wait 'til she's distracted…_

_Lights whizzing by.__  Fast.  She's in a car.  Driving?  No.  Passenger.  Look around, stay casual.  Road signs, landmarks, anything._

_Can't concentrate.__  Wondering, wondering – had it worked?  Had she saved her?  Grief and fear welling up in her, spilling over.  Oh, God, Dawnie…._

_A roaring filled her ears, unintelligible sounds of rage that spiraled higher and higher.  She tried to hang on, tried to assert control–_

"_Bitch_," Buffy hissed.  "You think you can trick me? This is _my _house now."

The cabbie frowned and watched her in the rearview mirror.  "Ma'am?  You okay?"

She smiled, dazzling and golden.  "Sorry.  Just talking to myself."

***************************************

On their way out of town, half a mile from the on-ramp to the 5, Spike screeched to a halt.  He stared up at the vision – for how long, he didn't know – then peeled off.

Behind them, the broken remains of the BuffyBot hung crucified atop a telephone pole.

_To be continued. _


	3. Waking

_Title: _Roundabout

_Author: _Devil Piglet

_Rating: _R

_Disclaimer: _All characters of 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' are used without permission.

_Author's Notes: _This is set post-'Hell's Bells', and while it overlaps some themes of 'Normal Again', for my purposes, the events in that episode haven't occurred.

_Feedback: _This is my first story posted to fanfiction.net.  I'd appreciate reviews: devilpiglet@yahoo.com.

_Website_: http://www.geocities.com/devilpiglet

***************************************

He drove for a day and a night.  He and Dawn were both too wired to sleep so he funneled the nervous energy into making tracks from Sunnydale.  God, he would emphatically not miss that town.  

Dawn was stiff and still in the passenger seat for the first few hours.  He couldn't blame her; he felt ill at ease himself and it wasn't a sensation he'd had very often in the last century.  Not since the late, unlamented William, at least.  Since then he'd felt terror, confusion, gleeful rage, humiliation (in the form of a stupid emasculating hateful blighted chip in his head), a second heaping of humiliation that made the first serving seem like apple cobbler (in the form of un-asked for, unrequited infatuation with the bleeding_ Vampire Slayer_, of all women), intense, all-consuming love (see second heaping of humiliation, previous), mind-numbing grief, cautious elation, passion that brought down walls and bruised even the stolid strength of a crypt, and heartbreak all the more painful for its inevitability.

But awkwardness was a new one.  

"Angel," Dawn said abruptly.

Spike frowned.  What, was he going to have to compete with the poof for the rest of his years?  Even now, even as he spirited her away from the horror that Buffy would have visited upon her, all Dawn could think of was Angel.  He wondered what kind of monk-memories those two had of each other.  Oh, she'd probably swooned over him as a child, with his martyrdom and Neanderthal build and noble love for her sister.  Fine, then.  

"You want me to take you to Angel?"  He tried to keep his voice steady.  Who was he to begrudge her this, if it would give her comfort?

Dawn stared at him like he was wearing his fangs on the outside.  "No," she said.  "We need to call him.  Or something.  If she's on the warpath, he'll be her next stop.  L.A.'s within driving distance, even for someone as road-impaired as Buffy.  Hell, maybe whatever's inside her made her a better driver."

For a moment Spike was speechless.  She sounded so…cold?  No, because he could hear the agony behind her words, could sense the herculean effort not to break down again, maybe forever this time.  She sounded…authoritative.  Strong and clinically blunt because nothing less would penetrate either of their grief-addled brains.  

Like Buffy during the Glory Days.

He reached over the DeSoto's wide bench seat and gave her hand a tentative squeeze.  "Right then.  We'll pull off at the next exit."

They ended up calling not only Angel, but Giles as well.  That, at Spike's insistence.  

They stood edgily outside a Carl's Jr. two hundred miles from Sunnydale, and far too close for Spike's tastes.  The always well-meaning Joyce had provided her younger daughter with a calling card in case of emergencies, and Spike figured this qualified.  Although he was momentarily distracted by the thought of walking up to the fast-food counter and requesting eleven dollars in quarters so that he could make a pay phone call overseas.  Or they could just call Giles collect, and wouldn't that chap the old man's hide?

Well, once he heard about Buffy, maybe not so much.

He took a long, desperate drag off his cigarette before Dawn thrust her gaily-colored backpack at him.  He rifled through it for Giles' number in London while Dawn dialed information and asked for Angel Investigations, Hollywood.  

His Sire had been disbelieving, accusing, and for the remainder of the conversation, monosyllabic.  Spike lost patience almost immediately, feeling he'd done his duty, and handed the phone to Dawn.  She assured Angel that she was uninjured and in Spike's company by choice.  The rest of her side of the conversation had been short and cryptic, but Spike suspected that Angel had been pressuring her to ditch his progeny at the first opportunity.  Under Spike's rapidly darkening glower, Dawn said her hasty goodbyes and hung up.  Then he'd handed her Giles' number.

At least the Watcher took the news like more of a man, in Spike's opinion.  Spike knew beyond a doubt that there was some repressed British emoting going on the other end of the line – he'd witnessed enough of it in his abbreviated lifetime to recognize the signs from four thousand miles away – but Giles remained fairly composed.  He demanded to know where Spike and Dawn were headed, but Spike was implacable in his refusal to tell him.  He promised periodic updates, and eventually Giles acquiesced.  He had precious few alternatives, didn't he?  With Dawn's help, Spike described the events in Sunnydale, and Buffy's…condition…in as much detail as possible.  Giles assured them he would investigate the cause but he didn't sound optimistic.

"The myriad influences she could have been exposed to, from – from the supernatural to the seemingly banal – are simply too numerous to document.  Good God, man, even if we could account for each of the last forty-eight hours before Buffy exhibited this psychosis, we still –"

"Rupert," Spike interrupted.  "Domestic dime, here, mate.  Me 'n' the Bit, we'll be in touch."  He replaced the phone in its cradle and then they were back on the blacktop. 

***************************************

Xander woke first.

His first thought was the same one he had had for the last two weeks: _OhmyGod!  I left Anya at the altar!_  The panic at that realization would surge like the tide and then recede, and he would start another day.

This time, though, there was no relief after the memory of his non-wedding faded. Instead, just a sense of familiar, growing dread, and the promise of something even worse than his most recent screwup.  Something bad…

The struggle toward full consciousness was a long, arduous one.  Pain waited on the other side of the curtain, of that he was sure, and he briefly considered slipping back into oblivion.  

But the screams – Willow's shrieks of terror, Tara's wordless pleas for mercy – they echoed in his head even now.  And above all that cacaphony was laughter that he didn't want to recognize, but did.

His eyes felt like someone had caulked them shut, and when he he finally pried them open the harsh white light of the room sent lightning bolts of agony through his body.  He manfully supressed a groan, then realized there was no one nearby to notice.  He let loose like a girl.  

Speaking of girls…he had misplaced a few, hadn't he?  

Xander looked around.  Hospital.  Yeah, he'd run this play before.  Harris gets his pansy ass whipped again, in a vain attempt to help the utterly not-needing-of-his-help Buffy –

And then it all came roaring back, and he felt suddenly, violently ill.  

He lay there for a moment, replaying the scene in his head.  Buffy had phoned, insisting that they all meet at the Magic Box.  _Like, now,_ she'd finished shrilly, and he'd shrugged on his jacket and gone.  If Buffy asked him to jump…

On the way, he'd seen Tara waiting on the corner of Waverly and Seventh and pulled over, asking if he could drop her somewhere.  Turned out they were headed the same place – Buffy had called her as well.  And Willow had been in the shop when they arrived.

Thank God, Xander thought dully, that it had been closed since the wedding that wasn't.  The Scoobies were alone.

Defenseless.

Buffy had breezed in, with her usual air of determination and ass-kicking sexiness.  A small part of Xander would always pine after Buffy, despite time and maturity and Significant Others and…

…And what happened next.

He couldn't think about it.  He just couldn't.  He'd always been the weak one, hadn't he?  No one had made any bones about that, least of all him.  He closed his eyes and his mind against the images of blood, of wide, arcing swoops of a sharp and shining blade.  Of himself going down first, because as a man he was the physically strongest of the three.  Tara and Willow were skilled witches, and therefore formidable in their own right, but they would need time to align their powers against Buffy.  They would not be able to join forces in time to restrain her, and Buffy knew that.  

Because she was their friend.

He'd watched from the floor as Willow dropped to her knees, still pleading with Buffy to tell her what was wrong, what had happened.  A split-second later Tara had fallen alongside her erstwhile lover.  Crimson stains spread along a jumble of peasant blouses and soft feminine flesh.

The scrape of a match, that awful rattle of laughter that seemed to assault his ears even now.  Then blackness.

And now here he was at Sunnydale Memorial, if he recognized that particular reviled shade of green that adorned the walls of the room.  Xander swallowed nervously, summoned up all the courage lurking inside him and attempted to wiggle his fingers and toes.

Success.  His digits, at least, were intact.

Time for a more thorough assessment of the damage.  Almost unwillingly, he began to lift the thin, overwashed cotton sheet that covered him –

And it was time for another girly scream.  His arms were swathed in bandages, wrist to bicep.  _Idiot._

"Defensive wounds," said a voice from the doorway.

His head jerked up at the sound, and he stared in stunned bewilderment.  "_Anya?_"

"On your arms.  The doctors said they were defensive wounds.  All those years I gave them, and I never knew they had a name."

"Anya…"  Xander couldn't seem to gather his thoughts.  "You look good," he said finally.  She looked _great_, although perhaps that was just the two weeks of separation talking.  She was fresh and clean and fully dressed, and so had Xander beat on three fronts.

She strode across the room and opened the curtains with a ruthless vigor, ignoring Xander's whimper as the room was flooded with sunlight.

"Willow?  Tara?"

"Willow woke up a little while ago.  Tara…hasn't.  She's in the Critical Care Unit.  The doctors say it's too early to tell if she'll recover.  They say there's always hope."  Her eyes suddenly fixed on his.  "Is that true?  Is there always hope?"

"An…"

"Because I don't think they should just lead people on, if there isn't."  Her voice was thready and a little too strident as she walked around the room, purposefully studying the bland prints and plastic furniture.

"I think they should just be honest, and say that there are some things you just can't recover from."  Suddenly running out of steam, she sank down in the chair next to his bed.  She scratched at the unfortunate orange vinyl upholstery, and didn't look at Xander.

"How…"  Xander shut his eyes briefly.  Too many possible endings to that question.  He settled on the one at the forefront of his mind.  "How did you find us?"

At that she did look up, and there was a flash of the old Anya.  "How did I _find_ you?  You were in _my store_."

Technically not true, but they'd had that conversation before with decidedly mixed results.  He did not feel up to tackling the issue again.

"I know, An, but the shop's been closed since…you know.  I've been by, looking for you."

"Of course you have.  Why do you think I closed it?  But my presence has still been required.  We have customers overseas, shipments arriving every day.  Retail is a demanding vocation, Xander."

"So you've told me.  And I thought I told _you_ that you shouldn't go to the shop by yourself at night.  It's not safe."  The words were out of his mouth before the irony sunk in.

Anya didn't seem to notice.  "Did you see what they did to the place?" she asked, and there was something too terribly heartbroken in her question.  "It's all burned up."

"I'm sorry.  I wish I could have stopped it."  And he did, if only to remove that sorrow from her face.

"I know I shouldn't be sad, because there's too much to be sad about already, but Xander…I worked so hard at it."

"I know, sweetie."

She swiped at her eyes.  "I should go.  There are policemen here, they want to speak to you."

Panic rose in his chest.  What the hell was he going to say?  "I – I'd really like to talk to Willow first.  If she's up to it."

Anya regarded him steadily.  Apparently a thousand years observing human nature counted for something.  Or maybe she just knew his _'Oh, shit, what do I do now' _face,  because she seemed to understand his dilemma.  "Willow's already told them she doesn't remember anything.  In case you were wondering."

"Uh, yeah.  I was.  Thanks.  Anya!"

She turned, hand on the doorknob.

"Will – When will I see you again?"

She seemed to give this some thought.  "The next time you get stabbed, burned and knocked unconscious, I suppose."

He mustered a smile.  "So, next week, then?"

She gave him a little half-wave and walked out the door._ She never asked about Buffy_, he thought, before closing his eyes again.

_To Be Continued._


	4. Sleeping

_Title: _Roundabout

_Author: _Devil Piglet

_Rating: _R

_Disclaimer: _All characters of 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' are used without permission.

_Author's Notes: _This is set post-'Hell's Bells', and while it overlaps some themes of 'Normal Again', for my purposes, the events in that episode haven't occurred.

_Feedback: _This is my first story posted to fanfiction.net.  I'd appreciate reviews: devilpiglet@yahoo.com.

_Website_: http://www.geocities.com/devilpiglet

***************************************

Spike dashed into the motel room, kicking the door shut behind him.  He shook himself lightly, a reflexive action anytime he got more solar action than he was used to.  He rubbed his eyes, gritty with lack of rest, and studied Dawn.

She stood uncertainly in the center of the room, backpack hanging forlornly from a single shoulder.  He wanted to go to her, whisper soothingly that everything was going to be okay.  

He didn't know where to begin.

"You must be knackered," he said at last.  "Why don't you wash up," he gestured to the bathroom, "and then have a lie-down.  We've made good time, we can stay here for a while."

"What about you?"

He laughed humorlessly.  "Was thinking I might do the same thing myself."  They'd been driving for two days.  He'd purposefully waited to stop, until sheer exhaustion would force them both into slumber.  It seemed to have worked – the thoughts of Buffy that plagued him ceaselessly had retreated for the time being.

Dawn nodded, her back still to him, and entered the bathroom.  The door clicked shut softly.  He sank down on one of the room's two twin beds, fully intending to change his clothes, get under the covers.  Or at least take off his shoes.  

But when Dawn emerged from the bathroom she could see that he was sleeping.  He did not fall into the deep, rhythmic breathing that living people did, she noted, but his very stillness was its own indication.  

She looked at the other bed, tidily made despite the ratty blankets that covered it.  It was empty and inviting, and surely Spike would hog the pillow and accidentally elbow her and dream about gross stuff, like winning a lifetime's supply of blood from The Vampire's Clearinghouse.  

She gently but forcefully nudged him over, until there was enough space for her to lie down.  He grunted and opened his eyes, but didn't say anything as she settled herself next to him.  She curled up on her side, and soon fell into blessed unconsciousness.

***************************************

Willow set the phone down with a strength that was probably unwarranted.  Xander, splayed out across the foot of her hospital bed, noted the appearance of her resolve face.  Wonderful.  

"Giles says that Dawn's safe, and that she's with Spike."

"That's an oxymoron," Xander broke in sourly.

"_And_, he says he doesn't know where they are or where they're headed."

Xander snorted.  "Figures.  How much help is he supposed to be, off in merry olde England?  He should never have left."  Inadequate pain medication and the inability to perform the simplest of tasks with his useless arms were making Xander cranky.  He knew he was being self-centered, knew that Willow must be wracked with worry over Tara and that Giles was mourning Buffy as a father would a daughter.  But until he got hooked up to a Demerol drip, the rest of the world could just go to hell.

If Buffy was lost to them, how much better did they deserve?

"He's been trying to reach Angel, but there's no answer," Willow was saying.  "And as for Buffy…" Willow's resolve face wavered, just a bit.  "No one's seen her since last night.  She attacked Dawn, but Spike intervened.  Or something.  Then she disappeared."

"Are you sure Spike didn't just take off with her?  I can't see him passing up an opportunity to do a Bonnie and Clyde with the girl he's been perving after for a year and a half."

"I'm not sure of anything," Willow said pointedly.  "Except that Spike wouldn't hurt Dawn."  _I don't think.  _

"So he just let her walk out the door, in all her newly homicidal glory?"

"We're hardly in a position to throw stones, Xander."  

He grunted, examined the hem of his nubby bathrobe and wished for the thousandth time today that this was all a bad dream.

***************************************

This is like a bad dream, Spike thought.

Spike was slumped against the wall of their motel room, eyes on the window, the door and the sleeping Dawn.

Giles filled him in briefly on Slayer lore.  Until recently, Spike had only been interested in Slayers as potential trophy kills.  Now he was learning more about them than he ever wanted to know.

"No new Slayer has been called," Giles informed him.

.  Spike took a long drag off his cigarette and tried to pay attention.  After a while, all these arcane facts took on a sheen of similarity.

"Right," he'd answered.  "But isn't there another one out there already?  This Faith chit?  Maybe that's why nobody else got Chosen up.  Y'know, Rupe.  Heir and a spare."  He smiled grimly. 

"Faith is a Slayer, yes, despite her incarceration for the foreseeable future.  But Buffy's line remains intact."

"How come no new Slayer came to Sunnyhell when Buffy died, then?"  Spike didn't really care, to be honest.

Giles sighed.  His exasperation crackled over the line, but he he spoke again his voice was patient.  "When one Slayer died, another is Chosen.  That will never change.  But the Council of Watchers, among their many other duties, also has discretion to not seek out the Chosen One.  For reasons they did not share with me, they were satisfied with Faith as the sole Slayer.  Regardless of what the Council decided, however, I would be aware if Buffy's –" he coughed, "Buffy's death triggered a new Slayer.  As I said earlier, no new Slayer has been called.  Buffy is still alive."

"Fine, then."  Spike ground out the cigarette.  "Do you propose we just sit around and wait 'til we see her on the evening news?"

"I know this is difficult, particularly for a man of your…impulsive nature.  But pursuing Buffy now would only endanger you, and consequently, Dawn.  We've been able to track her movements roughly, and they indicate that she is able and traveling independently.  You understand that we are in a delicate position – we might have more success using the Council's resources, but they have already proven that they have no compunction about putting down a rogue Slayer.  And Buffy…Buffy was never one of their favorites."

Spike already knew all this, knew that he was doing the right thing.  It sucked.  No wonder he never developed a taste for it.

"I'm not going to stay away forever, Watcher."

_To Be Continued._


	5. Dreaming

_Title: _Roundabout

_Author: _Devil Piglet

_Rating: _R

_Disclaimer: _All characters of 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' are used without permission.

_Author's Notes: _This is set post-'Hell's Bells', and while it overlaps some themes of 'Normal Again', for my purposes, the events in that episode haven't occurred.

_Feedback: _This is my first story posted to fanfiction.net.  I'd appreciate reviews: devilpiglet@yahoo.com.

_Website_: http://www.geocities.com/devilpiglet

***************************************

Buffy Summers was dreaming.

_Soft, surprisingly soft eyelashes batting against her own.  Tongues and limbs intertwined, and that gasp, that special gasp he might right before.  When she heard that sound she always forced herself to open her own eyes and look at him because the sight of his face then was so exquisite.  His expression would be at once feral and radiant – and despite the frequent violence of their lovemaking, Buffy would feel herself suffused, just for a moment, with something akin to joy._

_This time, though, it was different.  His face was aglow as it always was, but now there was something behind it.  Infinite patience.  Serenity.  He reclined on the bed in his crypt, cradling her as if he knew what was to come._

_She buried her face in his chest.  "I'm so scared," she sobbed out.  When had she started to cry?  Oh, God, what if –_

_"You're safe here," he said, as he continued to look down at her.  "She can't hear you.  These are your dreams, not hers."_

_Well, that was startlingly prosaic, after the dream's promising soft-porn beginning._

_Buffy knew that there were questions to be asked but she didn't want to talk.  Not about…that.  She just wanted to nestle here forever, in this lovely world of his familiar embrace that would hold her tight and keep the badness at bay._

_"I've been kicked out," Buffy explained.  "Can I stay with you?"_

_He chuckled ruefully.  "I'm afraid not.  You see, I've been displaced as well."_

_His voice was gentler than she remembered, more cultured.  And she could have used a 'pet' or 'love' thrown in there somewhere, Buffy thought with mild irritation.  She was kind of getting dumped on, in a cosmic sense.  Her soul, she remembered indignantly, was essentially homeless, and what the heck would he know about –_

_"Oh," she said apologetically, as realization struck her.  "William."_

_He just smiled, but then it faded as movement behind her caught his attention.  He hopped off the bed, caressed her one last time.  "You're still in the game," he told her.  "Don't let her convince you otherwise."_

_She opened her mouth to speak, to tell him that she really could use his help even though he probably wasn't as good a fighter as her Spike and since this wasn't real to begin with she wasn't going to analyze the fact that she'd just called him her Spike and damnit, these cryptic Slayer dreams did not cut the mustard sometimes, or maybe it was just the fact that she'd dropped out of school because hey, still clueless here –_

Then the noxious, choking darkness rolled in again, covering her like an oil slick until she was no more.

***************************************

Dawn knelt next to Spike.

"Don't worry," she soothed.  "Soon it will be over."

He just shook his head.  "It's just…it's all so messed up.  Wrong."

"I know."

"Is she a demon?"  A heartbreakingly hopeful expression appeared on his face.  "I can kill her if she's a demon."

"She's not a demon."

"I've never been so scared in my life."

"Now you're exaggerating."

"I didn't know there was evil like that out there.  I mean…I _thought _I knew, but…"

Dawn took his trembling hands in hers.  "It's okay.  It's been canceled.  This is the last season."

He exhaled slowly.  "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."  Dawn walked over to the television, where Ally McBeal was having another wide-eyed romantic crisis while dressed inappropriately and practicing law that would get her disbarred in most states.  With a decisive click, the screen went black.         

Spike sat back on the bed, seemingly drained.  Dawn eyed him speculatively.  There was something she'd been meaning to ask him, and now that he was all over vulnerable from 'Ally' it was her best chance.  She crawled up next to him.

"Were you really going to just dump me at Angel's?"

Spike's eyes opened and a small crease furrowed his brow.  After a week of way too much quality time with Dawn, he should have become accustomed to her non sequitur subject changes.  This one, however, threw him.

"I give up.  What are we talking about?"

"The first day.  You asked me if I wanted to go to Angel's."

"Hell, Dawn, you were the one brought it up.  I thought you wanted to stay with him."

"And you would have let me?  Dropped me off on his doorstep and waved goodbye?  Maybe if I was lucky it'd be at night, and you'd actually get out of the car."

Spike had probably said or done something recently that warranted this conversation, but he was too tired to figure out what.  Which meant almost certainly that he would find himself in this uncomfortable position again someday.  Those who ignore history are doomed to repeat it…God, wasn't he the poster boy for that truism.

He snorted loudly.  "Not a bloody chance.  Hand you over to the brooding wonder?  The guy who could start snacking on you if he sees a laugh-out-loud episode of 'Friends'?  Oh, but_ I'm_ the unstable one."

Dawn felt a rush of relief at that, followed immediately by guilt.  Stupid emotions.  How could she be happy about anything, with Buffy still missing?  She knew that if it weren't for her, Spike would be out there now, hunting for her sister.  Instead he was saddled with Dawn.  

"Guess you got the short end of the stick," she said, with a vain attempt at lightness.

Spike stared at her again.  Maybe it was some kind of adolescent hormonal thing, he thought uneasily.  "_Now_ what are we talking about?"

"Ending up with me instead of Buffy.  C'mon, I mean…you can't tell me you wouldn't rather be –"

"Don't," Spike said shortly.  "You don't know as much as you think you do."

She plucked at the bedspread, seemingly intent on the play of her long fingers over the garish magenta flowers.  "Shouldn't we be out there helping her?" Dawn asked in a whisper.

_Shouldn't we be out there helping her? _ It was a question he'd asked himself at least twenty times a day since their flight had started.  He was alternately tormented by images of the suffering Buffy might be experiencing, and the suffering Buffy might be _inflicting_ on an unsuspecting populace.

He'd spoken with the Watcher about this.  He'd found Giles surprisingly good to talk to, someone with whom he could share his otherwise unuttered fear for Dawn, for Buffy.  For himself.  The older man felt that there was no benefit that could be gained from confronting Buffy before they had more information.  Which would be _any_ information, Spike thought in frustration.

_Yeah_, he answered silently, _we should._

Weeks passed, bleeding into one another in their sameness.  Drive all night, almost every night.  Find the most respectable looking motel off the highway and book a room.  They rarely stayed anywhere more than twenty-four hours, just long enough to shower, eat, and fall into bed.  Spike had spent much of his unlife traveling, in not-always-commodious conditions.  He was accustomed to the pace and the draining weariness of being constantly on the move.  He knew it was harder on Dawn.  He tried to keep her busy, with books and crossword puzzles and pilfered CDs.  It was nothing close to what she needed or deserved.  But at the end of the day, he was no more than Spike, the disgruntled, impractical vampire.  

_Dear Mr. Giles,_

_How are you?  Spike and I are fine.  I like where we're staying now; it's warm like California but with lots of old buildings, which Spike likes.  The people talk weird but since most of my conversations are with you and Spike I think I could get used to it.  I wish we could stay here for a while.  I've been to six states now, and that's cool but I'm getting kind of thrashed.  You wouldn't believe how many ugly bedspreads there are in the world.  I think I've seen them all.  And if I never sleep underneath a pink stucco ceiling again for the rest of my life, I can die happy._

_Uh, yeah…Anyway._

_Thanks for getting me out of my classes.  Bet you never thought having connections at Sunnydale High would come in handy.  Spike said you fudged (he didn't use that word) some paperwork that has me on an exchange program to Sweden.  He was all worried that I was going to flunk out or something.  It's weird what sets him off.  Sometimes I think he reads this stuff on the backs of cereal boxes, or standing in line at the Ralph's.  _

_We miss Buffy._

_I'm so worried that she's out there somewhere and she needs help and she can't find us.  Then right after that I worry that we haven't gone far enough fast enough and she's going to show up at room number 9 of the Stop-Inn with a machete.  Do you know where she is?  After we heard what happened at the Hyperion Spike stopped telling me that kind of stuff.  And I don't really ask, because of that look he gets on his face._

_I have to go.  Spike's always home before 'The Howard Stern Show' starts and he said he was bringing chocolate milk and taquitos._

_Take care,_

_Dawn Summers_

Dawn studied the letter critically as Spike unlocked the motel room door, juggling paper bags.  "A little help, here?"

"In a second," she answered distractedly.  "Spike, how do you spell 'machete'?"

He set the bags down on the rickety bedside table and began unloading the contents.  "Writing to the Watcher again?"

She wrinkled her nose.  "He actually sent me back my last letter, marked up with a red pen."

"I know.  I got an earful about neglecting the most fundamental aspects of your education in favor of 'teenybopper rags and abhorrent television programming designed to appeal to the lowest common denominator.'"  Spike gave her an appraising glance.  "Sound familiar?"

"Oh."  Dawn bit her lip.  "I might have mentioned how we've been watching 'Temptation Island 3'."  _Note to self: edit this week's letter._  She rose from the bed and joined him in pawing through the groceries.  "Ooh!  Lunchables!"

"Clever, ain't they?  Couldn't pass 'em up.  M-A-C-H-E-T-E."

"Huh?  Oh, yeah.  Thanks."

"Just my way of further contributing to the delinquency of a minor."

Dawn watched as Spike attempted to make himself comfortable on a bed that was too small for him, and peeled back the cellophane covering of a manufactured meat product that he seemed to find more amusing that appetizing.  She remembered the past weeks, the stretches of days and nights that he had stayed awake while she slept, or pretended to.  She noticed how much thinner he had gotten without a steady supply of blood, and wondered at how he must scramble now to find sources of food in these tiny backwaters they'd been frequenting.  

"Buffy would be so proud of you."

His head whipped around and he gaped at her, stunned.  It was almost funny, really.

"What the – what put that thought into you head?"

"Everything.  Stuff."  She shrugged.  "Well, it's true."

"Uh-huh.  I think she'd feel about the same Giles does.  And there'd be more hitting involved.  Kneeing in delicate places, possible staking.  That sort of thing."

"You're doing what she asked you to," Dawn persisted.

"Asked me?  Was that before or after she tried to turn you into mince?  'Cause I must not have been listening, what with the all the psychosis in the room.  Distracting, that."  He knew he sounded harsh and told himself he didn't care.

Dawn glared at him, but his moods no longer intimidated her.  "Don't be all humpy," she said, and Spike winced inwardly at hearing his own slang out of her mouth.  

"Before.  When Glory was macking on her Dawn-shaped Key and Buffy took us over to your place.  Remember?  With my mom?"

The too-brief moments of companionship he'd shared with Joyce.  The warm feeling that had taken up residence in his gut, at the thought of being protector rather than predator, and the ensuing self-disgust.

"I remember."

"I heard what she said when she left us there.  She said you were the only one strong enough to protect us."

He couldn't prevent a small smile from breaking through.  "I guess she did at that."

"She couldn't have planned it better herself, if she'd, you know, _been_ herself…"  Dawn trailed off.  Silence reigned.

"Do you think we'll ever see her again?"

Dawn's small voice pierced him in places he thought were dead and immune.  He would happily die for good if it would take this hurt away from her, this raw open wound that festered between them because there was no healing for it.  Buffy was still out there, somewhere.  

"Yes," he said, and his words were surprisingly steady to his own ears.  

On impulse, Dawn scooted over and threw her arms around his neck, nearly upending the Lunchable tower he was building.  

"Watch the biscuits, will you?  For crying in a bucket…"  He set his construction down and hugged Dawn tightly.  

This was still so new to him, this…touching, without agenda or pretense.  Marathon shagging with superhuman warrior-women, he knew.  Spontaneous hugging, though, put Spike entirely out of his depth.  But he loved it, secretly and with the wide-eyed wonder of a child.  Dawn's easy warmth fed an addiction he didn't know he had.  

"You're going to be taller than me soon, you know that?"

She nodded, her head bumping his chin, and reached across him to retrieve the Lunchable.  She began eating it, starting at the top with a triangle slice of rather violently pink ham.  "And then, you're going to try to make me do stuff, like go inside the Del Taco and tell them they forgot the Fire Sauce, and I'm going to lay the smack-down on you, 'cause I can."

The mental image that conjured up was so absurd he started to laugh, and Dawn joined him.  They fought over the cold cuts and spilled crumbs on the sheets, and instead of watching television they played poker.  Two hours later Dawn was asleep, her exhalations probably startling truckers zooming past on the highway fifty feet from their door.

Spike moved the desk chair in front of the door and wedged it there, shut off the cheap lamp that stood between the narrow beds, and closed his eyes.

The bloody bitch haunted his dreams.

He couldn't stop replaying that night, that final, fateful night.  He'd lie there, determined that today, _this _day, he wasn't going to do it.  And then the loop would start, and he was helpless to do anything but watch.  Bloody masochistic, it was, even for Spike, for whom pain and love were hopelessly intertwined.

And the crazy thing was, he didn't have anything to feel guilty for.  Not this time.  After Buffy had taken her swan dive off that tower, his punishing mind had been driven by the few moments before – when he'd been within a hair's-breath of saving Dawn, and instead got beat down by a wizened little gremlin of a guy.  Oh, yeah.  Major self-flagellation over that one, and well-deserved at that.  He'd taken his licks for it, and would have continued to had she ultimately not clawed her way out of the grave.

After that, the words 'lick' and 'Buffy' had a whole new connection.  

Tonight more than ever, he was compelled to re-examine those final moments.  Something Dawn said earlier, he was sure.  But he couldn't grasp it, couldn't wrap his mind around the essential detail that eluded him. Because there was something he was missing.  One hundred and twenty-some years provided plenty of opportunity for introspection.  His brain was trying to tell him something.  

_Think, you stupid git!  Think!_

Waking up.  Dawn's tears.  His love's name, whimpered endlessly, and all the while Spike being afraid for Buffy, when he should have been afraid _of _her.  The panic, the mad rush to take the girl and make her lead him to Buffy.  Not fast enough, mate – that clever Slayer was already at his door, smiling in a way he'd never seen her smile before.  The kind of smile he imagined others might see on him.  It had looked wrong, so wrong, and in that instant he knew that Dawn had been utterly truthful with him.  Thank God, Spike reflected now, she'd eventually had the sense to come to his place, rather than –

Whoa.  Back up a mo'.  Slowly, slowly…

_'She just kept cutting me off, everywhere I turned.  I lost her just before the cemetery.'_  Now that stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb.  Since when did Buffy lose her quarry?  And on a route that was so well-worn by her tiny feet?  There was no way she got to the gates of St. Ambrose's, scratched her head, and tried to figure out where little sister had run off to.

Think, Spike.  Hell, pull William out of retirement if you have to.

_'She just kept cutting me off…'_

_Thank God she'd had the sense to come to his place…._

_'You're the only one strong enough to protect them.'_

_'You're doing what she asked you to.'_

He sat straight up in bed, realization applying a hot poker to his spine.  Oh, he was a stupid git, no question.  

Buffy had chased Dawn, all right.  Chased her right into Spike's arms.  

Not-Buffy had already worked over the others.  No Scoobies to the rescue by the time she got to Dawn.  And it was all falling into place, now.  How she had left Dawn for last; those precious few minutes so that Dawn could stammer out her amazing, horrific tale.  And their final showdown in his crypt.  Spike was not so arrogant as to think that he had been destined to win their confrontation.  Buffy was nothing if not a ruthless, relentless opponent.  But…perhaps destiny had a hand in some of that night.

It wasn't Buffy working the controls.  Once he'd accepted that, it only seemed natural that she had been overtaken completely and utterly.  That the old Buffy – the real Buffy – was no longer in residence.  

Now he was unsure.  No, that swaggering creature that had come for Dawn was not Buffy.  Neither was the one who aroused his bloodlust with a few well-chosen words.  That was some some rank swill poured into a familiar chalice.  But the timing, the sequence of events…it couldn't be ignored.  

She hadn't been able to break free, so she'd done the next best thing: taken the reins, briefly – milliseconds, maybe – and steered as best she could before the interloper noticed the change in direction.

_Oh, my girl, _he thought.  _My dear, sweet girl.  _

_To Be Continued._


	6. Hands Across America

_Title: _Roundabout

_Author: _Devil Piglet

_Rating: _R

_Disclaimer: _All characters of 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' are used without permission.

_Author's Notes: _This is set post-'Hell's Bells', and while it overlaps some themes of 'Normal Again', for my purposes, the events in that episode haven't occurred.

_Feedback: _This is my first story posted to fanfiction.net.  I'd appreciate reviews: devilpiglet@yahoo.com.

_Website_: http://www.geocities.com/devilpiglet

***************************************

One month to the day after she had left Sunnydale, Buffy Summers stepped into the International Terminal of O'Hare Airport in Chicago, Illinois.  She shook out her lengthening honey hair and eyed her wrinkled pants with distaste.  Nothing like traveling to make you look like you'd just climbed out of a garment bag, she thought.  

It had taken her longer than she'd expected to make her way east, but she'd had a few stops to make first.  Nothing like a visit with old friends, was there?  Oh, that look on Angel's face had been priceless, absolutely priceless.  And Cordelia – if Buffy didn't know any better, she'd think that the ex-cheerleader was setting her pompom for the vampire.  An icy smile broke across Buffy's face.

She'd moved on too.  As they'd both learned, when blood splashed the floors of the old hotel.  That well-stocked weapons cabinet had been a bonus.

She sauntered over to the Departure monitors.  Her plane was on time, and boarding in ten minutes.  Just long enough for her to get freshened up.  When she entered the ladies' restroom it was deserted.  Good.  She wasn't much of a people person these days.  

She stood over the sink, letting the water run as she dug into her purse for lipstick.  When she looked back at the mirror, the figures of three black-suited men stood behind her.

She whirled around, adopting a fighting stance.  "If you're looking for a good time," she said, "you've come to the right place."

She launched herself at them, and reveled in the fight.  Spike had disappointed her, taking the little one and running like a dog when all she wanted was an equal partner.  But these boys…they would do nicely.

Porcelain smashed into shards, the metal doors of the stalls clanged and dented as the four of them charged around the bathroom.  Buffy would have been happy to go on, but suddenly the men stopped, moving jointly to restrain rather than subdue her.  Buffy followed their gazes to the doorway.

Another man stood there, slight and trim in a tailored suit and graying hair.  He eyed her speculatively, and with a certain degree of approval.  Buffy felt blood trickling from her lip.  Her tongue darted out to lick it clean.  

The man smiled.

"Miss Summers," he said politely.

She threw her head back and laughed.  "Maybe," she winked at him.  "People have had a hard time believing it, though."

"I'm well aware," he replied.  "You've done some extensive damage.  We really didn't expect you to be so…proactive.  It took us some time just to catch up to you."

Her laughter died.  "Who's 'us'?  I don't take orders from the Council anymore, if that's who writes your checks."

The man shook his head and stepped closer.  "Not at all.  My name is Rodger Kehoe."  He nodded to the suits, who backed off and released her.  Buffy straightened and eyed him warily.

"Do give me the benefit of the doubt," he chided her.  "After all, you can thank me for your newfound freedom."

"Really?"  Hmm.  She'd wondered, off and on, just what had prompted her.._conscience? essence?_…to shrug off like a discarded snake's skin.  Not that she missed it.

"Yes.  We thought you'd be an excellent specimen.  And you haven't disappointed.  No, not at all."

"Thanks for thinking of me," she said.  "But," she turned to the mirror again and ran her hands down the length of her body, conscious of the mens' eyes on her.  "I'm afraid you didn't quite finish the job."

"Is that so?"

"Just the other day," Buffy went on, "_she_ tried to walk me into a police station.  Points for effort – she's a persistent thing.  I'm trying to keep a sense of humor about all this, but she's starting to piss me off.  It's like…" she searched her mind, then brightened.  "It's like just when you think you've got the mouse caught in the trap, it turns up in the cupboard again.  _So _annoying."

He extended a hand to her.  "I think we can do something about that."

***************************************

Spike had seen enough.  

Maybe it was lack of sleep; maybe it was the fact that they were parked in yet another bleached-out, dying highway town.  Maybe it was his new godforsaken, bittersweet hunch that something of Buffy was left in that savage shell.  Whatever the reason, Spike's patience had worn down to the thinnest possible shred.  He'd been wracking his brain for the last twenty hours, wondering how to share his suspicions with Dawn.  But the spectacle she was putting on now warranted a different conversation entirely.

He grabbed her arm and half-dragged her, protesting, out of the gas station-cum-convenience store.  In one had he held a pastic bag of lousy, nutritionless food; in the other he towed Dawn across the street to their motel.

"What?" Dawn whined.

He didn't say anything, merely steered her into their room and gave her a rough shove inside.

"Manhandle much?" she snapped.  "What's your problem?"

"My problem is you making eyes at some inbred, glue-sniffing petrol jockey who'd love to teach jailbait like you a few things."

"I was not making eyes!  God, we were just talking!"

"Oh, sorry.  I must have just been imagining the way you were _twirling your bloody hair_.  If it makes you happy, you got his attention.  And if he comes sniffing around here, I'll get _his _attention.  Understand?"

"You can't do anything anyway  You've got –"

"I can do plenty. All it costs me is a headache."

"What, are you going to be the only person I talk to for the rest of my life?"

"Not at all.  Nuns, elderly shut-ins – they're all fair game."

She stamped her foot. "Stop making fun of me!"

"Stop acting funny."

"I'm sick of being shut up in these stupid nasty motels with you!  I want to have a life!  And if I want to talk to a guy, then I'll do that too!"

Spike's jaw clenched, and he stalked forward, got right up in her face.  "You'll have a life when _I _decide it's safe.  Until then, little girl, you and I are stuck together for better or worse.  Things are gonna get a hell of a lot worse if you don't start behaving!"

"I hate you!" she screamed.

"Good!" he shouted back.  "I hate you too!  And the next time your bitch of a sister goes off the rails, she can take you with her!"

She pushed past him and into the tiny bathroom, slamming the door behind her.  He heard the lock turn and then the water running, affording her the only privacy that could be had given their circumstances.  He scowled and kicked the TV stand.  An unsightly crack appeared and the thing lilted drunkenly to one side, but the wanton destruction of property left him strangely cold.  Finally he slumped against the bathroom door, leaning his head back and staring at the ceiling.

He was no good at this.

He wasn't a fool, despite all evidence to the contrary.  He knew Giles was right in his distrust of Spike as Dawn's de facto guardian.  He was strong, yeah – the only one among them who could hold his own with Buffy in a fight – but when it came to the day-to-day responsibilities of caring for a teenaged girl, he was at sea.  He was a bad influence on her, he could see it: the nocturnal schedule; the diet of television and transience; their whole fast-food existence – cheap, dirty and utterly lacking in value.  

A part of him – a very large part – had wanted nothing more than to join Buffy in her rampage.  They'd create a thing of terrible beauty, he knew.  They'd bring carnage to depths unplumbed even by he and Dru.  

And Spike would be back to doing something he was good at.

He didn't know how long he sat there before the door opened and he fell backward in a manner not befitting an authority figure.  As he propped himself up on the cold, cracked tiles of the bathroom, Dawn surveyed him.  Finally, she scooted down at his side.

"I'm sorry," she said in a whisper.

"Me too."  He took her head in his hands and kissed her forehead lightly.  They sat in silence for several minutes.

"What if it happens to me, too?" Dawn asked.

"Huh?"

"The way she – changed.  What if it's going to happen to me?"

"It won't."

"The monks made me out of her, Spike.  We're the same.  If it's in our blood, or our brains or whatever –"

"Let's see," Spike said.  "Dawn, insane and wishing for my dusty death.  Well, how the hell would I even be able to tell the difference?"

She punched him on the arm.  It reminded him of Buffy.

"Tell you what," he said.  "Next stop we make, we'll stay in a real hotel.  Someplace nice.  And we'll get a suite, with plenty of space.  Giles says he's gotten our IDs in order, it shouldn't be too hard."

Dawn sat up.  "Really?"

"You're not exactly an ideal roommate, you know.  Chip's been getting quite a workout the last few weeks and that's just over the snoring."

"It's not snoring, it's breathing.  You're just not used to hearing it."

It was snoring, and Spike knew this because he had lain awake many nights back in Sunnydale, listening to Buffy breathe.  Buffy slept the sleep of the exhausted, the sexually satiated and the emotionally ravaged.  But she had nothing on the bone-rattling racket that erupted form Dawn Summers.

"Fine.  If we get a place with rooms and doors, then I won't have to put a stop to the breathing, will I?"

"Oh, this is going to be so cool.  We'll have to wait 'til we get to an actual city, you know, one with a stoplight and everything, but still…"   

Spike stood, reaching a hand out to her.  She took it and followed him out of the bathroom.  The phone on the bedside table rang shrilly.  Spike shut his eyes briefly.  Another depressing chat with the Watcher, in which nothing was learned and no solution made itself known.  As a true Sunnydale native would put it, yay.

He let Dawn answer it.  "Hi, Giles.  How are you?"  She toyed with the phone cord.  "Mmm…mmm-hmmm.  We're okay, I guess.  I didn't know Texas was so big.  I feel like we've been here forever."  A beat.  "Largest…oh.  I didn't know that.  Learn something new every day, huh?  Even when you're not in school," she added pointedly.  Spike smirked and settled himself on the bed next to her.  Let her torture the Watcher for a while; he was wrung out.  "Spike?  He's not doing too well, actually."  Spike raised his scarred eyebrow, a move that had driven countless women wild but, sadly, had no effect on Dawn.  "What?  No, nothing like that.  I think his squirrel and jackrabbit diet is making him crabby," she confided.  "Yow!"  She dodged Spike's half-hearted grab and tossed the phone at him.  "Here.  Giles wants to talk to you."

Spike took the phone and moved to the open window, where he could smoke without getting kicked in the shin by Dawn.  "Yeah?"

"I've been happy to avoid this topic, but I suppose it's time I inquire as to how, exactly, you two are surviving.  In terms of money, and, er, sustenance."

"If it makes you feel better.  I thought I'd hit rock bottom when I was tied up in your bathtub being fed from a straw.  Now I'm mugging truckers for cash and living off roadkill and restaurant leavings.  Happy now?"

"Not by any stretch of the imagination.  Allow me to change the subject.  I have news."

Spike stood up straighter, the cigarette in his hand forgotten.  "Talk to me."

"Two days ago, a gentleman at O'Hare Airport in Chicago reported seeing a young woman with an_ axe _sticking out of her carry-on bag.  She matched Buffy's description and had a one-way ticket to Heathrow."

Buffy did always have the best weapons, Spike thought wistfully.  "She was coming to see you."

"It would appear so.  Airport security investigated the man's sighting, but the woman left the airport without getting on her scheduled flight."

"Left?"

"They have her on videotape, getting into a stretch limousine with four men."

"She was taken, then."  Spike felt his worst fear confirmed.  They'd abandoned Buffy, and now –

"No.  She seemed…quite content to be in their company.  While I obviously don't know the details of their encounter, I would wager that these men have something to do with what happened to Buffy.  If we've been able to track her, so have others."  

"And unlike us, those others are with her at this very blasted second.  Damnit, Rupert, I _told_ you we should have gone after her."  

"How?  In her current state she's clearly beyond reason.  Would you have Dawn wait in the car while you tried to wrestle her sister, her only family, into submission?  Truss her up in the trunk and beat her back to sanity?"

As a matter of fact, it closely resembled the plan Spike had come up with since his epiphany last night.  It still sounded pretty good to him.

"I understand your disappointment.  Believe me, I feel the same.  But our position has improved.  We have more information now."

"We have bugger-all now!"

"Spike, listen to me!"  Giles' voice practically reverberated through the phone line.

"This all came to light today – when the group returned to the airport.  They boarded a private jet, circumventing the standard security checkpoints Therefore the airport police weren't able to detain them in time.  They were en route to California.  Los Angeles."

Ten minutes later Spike hung up, feeling both giddy and fearful.  He turned to see Dawn watching him intently.  She knew.  Of course she knew; his little one was as quick as they came. 

"Buffy…?"

"Pack up," he told her.  "We're heading back."

***************************************

Tara slipped away that evening.

Willow sat by the bed long after it was empty, her white fingers gripping the sheets.  

"Will?"  Xander poked his head in.  They'd been discharged for weeks, but visiting Tara had kept them at the hospital nearly full-time.

She didn't answer.  He approached cautiously, settling himself on the bed.

"Don't sit there!"  Willow cried.

Xander stood up.  "Willow, you've got to leave.  They need…they need the room."

Willow turned her red-rimmed eyes up to his.

"I'll never forgive her for this."

_To Be Continued.           _


	7. Gridlock

_Title: _Roundabout

_Author: _Devil Piglet

_Rating: _R

_Disclaimer: _All characters of 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' are used without permission.

_Author's Notes: _This is set post-'Hell's Bells', and while it overlaps some themes of 'Normal Again', for my purposes, the events in that episode haven't occurred.  The 'Pokemon' reference is for you, Tigress Eve, even though I have no idea wtf it meant.  

_Feedback: _This is my first story posted to fanfiction.net.  I'd appreciate reviews: devilpiglet@yahoo.com.

_Website:_ http://www.geocities.com/devilpiglet

***************************************

The dream again.

Peace.

_They reclined on the bed together, she and this boy-man who looked like Spike, was Spike, and yet was not.  William._

_Buffy looked around lazily.  Cracked stone walls, a generous coating of dust on every surface.  A few scattered, empty bottles._

_"Still with the crypt?  You know," she said, "maybe next time we meet it could be at the beach or something."_

_He laughed softly. To her mind's eye he appeared identical to Spike.  But the man before her now was serene, content.  And that made all the difference in the world._

_ "Believe it or not," he told her, "you picked this place."_

_Buffy sat up and took another look around.  "I did?"  Figured._

_"She's getting stronger," Buffy informed William.  "I think she's gotten rid of me for good."_

_"Do you?" he asked.  "Or is that what she's telling you?"_

_Hard to answer.  _

_"I can't come up for air," Buffy persisted.  _

_William tsk-tsked and began to straighten the mussed bedcovers.  He surveyed her with an expression that she had seen Spike wear many times, the one that said, _Use your head, Slayer.

_"You wanted Spike to protect Dawn.  Is that right?" he asked._

_"Duh.  He's the only one --"_

_William stopped her with a wave of his hand.  "Yes, Spike is _able_ to protect Dawn.  So are countless demons."_

_She stared at him.  "What, I'm just going to hand her over to some random freak-monster?  He adores Dawn."_

_He just looked at her, waiting.  Buffy bit off another snarky comment and figured, what the hell.  She'd go along for the ride._

_Spike cared about Dawn.  Spike had rebuffed the other, _really_ not-so-pleasant Buffy, so that he could save her sister.  _

_And now that we were on the subject, how about the way he had watched over Dawn all summer, while the late Buffy Summers was doing her part for the ecology of Sunnylawn Cemetery?_

_He could have just left.  It would have been easier for him.  _

_Buffy sighed inwardly.  BadBrain was back._

_The realization of Spike's actions was not a new one.  It had hovered there since she'd returned from the Great Beyond, but she'd ignored it in favor of other realizations about Spike.  _

_Like his magic fingers, and how his words during their lovemaking sent her over an edge she didn't know she had._

_Buffy pulled her what was left of her mind firmly out of the gutter.  "I get it.  Spike's done some good lately.  Look, if this is about him changing for me –"_

_William's teeth clacked together audibly.  "I'm hardly here to plead his case.  I could go on for hours on the shortcomings of our Spike.  This is about_ you_, Buffy.  Forget about whether you've changed him or not.  The fact remains, he is what he is.  A soulless demon who demonstrates love and compassion."_

_William leaned in close, blue eyes intense and forceful.  "If good can survive in him, Buffy, why can't it in you?"_

***************************************__

Spike hated L.A.

He stared at the car in front of him, a forest-green SUV with a license plate holder that read HAPPINESS IS…BEING BRITTANY'S MOMMY.  Next to him, Dawn studied the map.

"Where's the turnoff?"

"Get in the right lane."

"I am in the right lane.  That'll take us to the 110 North."

"That's not right.  We'll end up in Pasadena."

"What, then?"

Friday afternoon.  His skin was itching, the way it did when he was up and about in the daylight.  The sun beat down on the car mercilessly and he had to continually fight the urge to pull over and park beneath an overpass until dusk fell.  

Next to him a car horn blasted, followed by an angry shout.  Spike shut his eyes briefly.  They'd been sitting in traffic for an hour and a half, and in that time had traveled perhaps four miles.  That was an estimation, of course; Buffy had accidentally kicked out the odometer during one of their more frantic front-seat encounters.  

_I'll bring you back.  The real you.  I won't let you down this time.  I promise you, Buffy.  _

Dawn's voice broke his reverie.  "We need a Thomas Guide.  This thing isn't any good."

"Don't tell me you don't know how to read a map."

"I do!  But something's spilled on this one.  Something gross and sticky."

Spike quickly snatched the map out of Dawn's hands, then relaxed.

"It's just beer."

"Hmm…gross?  Check.  Sticky?  Check."

"Excuse me, Your Keyness.  Not all of us –"

"There!  Turn!  Turn!"  Dawn pointed frantically at an off-ramp.  Giving directions, she thought resentfully, was not easy when she had to do it through a three-by-five inch clear spot she'd scrubbed out of the black gunk covering the windshield. "Grand Avenue."

Spike swore.  The DeSoto swerved.  The guy in the Boxster he cut off gestured wildly.  A moment later they were off the freeway, cruising through downtown Los Angeles.  

"Fifth Street, and then another right on Figueroa," Dawn supplied.

At least, Spike thought with relief, Angelus and his cadre were gone.  They'd disappeared after Buffy had descended, and with what Spike could admit was rather uncharacteristic eagerness on the part of his Sire.  He'd expected him to brood, look for opportunities at martyrdom, and generally bust Spike's ass.  Of course, what with the new developments there and all, he supposed Angel might finally have decided someone else was more important than his own eternal and vocal suffering.

Spike looked at Dawn, who was busy scratching away at the black-out windows.  Maybe he could relate to Soul-boy, after all.  Maybe.

"Here."  He tossed a manila folder across the front seat.  "Look in there and see if our papers in order.  Giles isn't my first choice when it comes to falsifying documents."

He heard Dawn rifle through the sheaf, and then a sharp burst of laughter.  The sound was so foreign to their life now that he stared at her, perplexed.  She just laughed harder.

"What?  What is it?"  She shook her head. 

Keeping one hand on the steering wheel he leaned over and retrieved the IDs from her.  Then he erupted.

"Son of a bitch!  I'll kill him.  Oh, I'll snack on his intestines.  I'll carve out his eyeballs with a soup ladle.  He'll beg me to finish him off!  I – _owwwww_…"  He clutched his head and then pointed accusingly at Dawn.  "You!  Stop laughing!  Or you're next!"

"Whatever, _Chip_."  She dissolved into giggles again.

Spike banged his head against the steering wheel.  

***************************************

Buffy sat in a comfortably overstuffed leather chair, waving off an assistant who silently offered her a cup of tea.  The aide melted into the background of the mahogany-paneled office.  Across from her, Rodger Kehoe smiled.

"I must say, you've surpassed even my expectations," he said admiringly.  "I wasn't quite sure how you'd take to all this."

Buffy sat back, studying her recently-manicured nails.  No more dishpan hands, she thought smugly.

"Are you kidding?  This is the first time somebody's paid me to kill demons.  Better hours than I had as a Slayer, that's for sure.  And the benefits can't be beat."

"I'm glad you're finding everything satisfactory.  And, that other problem…?"

"The old, unimproved Buffy?  She hasn't made an appearance.  Guess she finally took the hint."

"Excellent. You know," Kehoe leaned in, "the time will come when you'll be asked to kill humans as well.  Do you think you can do that?"

Buffy giggled.  "Ask my friends if they think I'm capable.  Look, you keep keeping me in the style to which I'm going to become accustomed, and I'll kill Pokemon for you."

Kehoe looked at her blankly.  Buffy rolled her eyes.  "I'm yours, okay?"  _Until something better comes along._

His face smoothed out again.  "I knew I had happened upon an excellent plan when I chose you, Buffy.  A human is hardly a threat to the…elements in my line of work.  No one ever suspects how powerful you really are.  Which makes you the perfect enforcer."

Blah, blah, blah, Buffy thought.  Yes, you're a genius.  Can I kill something now?__

  
***************************************

Chip and Danielle Williams watched as the parking attendant stared dubiously at the DeSoto, then at the keys in his hand, then at Chip.  Chip growled.  The attendant hastily got in the car and drove off.

"Valet parking," Dawn marveled.  "This is so cool."

The Westin Bonaventure was a massive complex, four glass towers housing over a thousand rooms.  It had, among other amenities, a Krispy Kreme Donut stand and a revolving restaurant.  Spike's newly minted 'sister' somehow got him to promise to take her to both.  What the hell, Spike reasoned.  He decided that Chip was a big spender.  Fancy hotel, suite of rooms for the Bit.  Maybe Giles would have apoplexy when he saw the bill.  Spike had to take his fun where he could find it.

Checking in was a swift and relatively painless process, and in a few minutes they were each holding a glossy keycard to a suite on the thirty-second floor of the East Tower.  "I'm keeping this," Dawn said, waving it in his face, and he shrugged.

"You keep lots of stuff, Miss Sticky Fingers," he answered.  "Speaking of, how come I had to do all this stealing on this trip?"

Dawn sniffed as they walked to the elevator bank.  "I don't do that anymore," she told him airily.

"Convenient, that."

Inside the steel-and-glass elevator chamber, Spike closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall.  He could fall asleep right here, he thought, with the soft soothing whoosh of the rushing air around them, the cool metal against his skin…

Dawn tugged on the duster.  "We're here."  He followed her onto their floor.

It was worth staying awake, he decided, just to see the look on her face when she entered their suite.  Her eyes went impossibly wide, and she bounded from room to room, inspecting.

"You should see the bathroom!" she crowed.  "Jacuzzi, hello…"

He shut the door behind him and locked it, then picked up her bag from where she had unceremoniously dropped it at his feet.  He wasn't in the mood to fully appreciate her exuberance, but he'd store the memory up for a later time.  And at least Phase One of his latest genius plan had worked: she was impressed enough with the accomodations that, God willing, she wouldn't whinge too much if he left her to her own devices here tonight.

He wandered into the master bedroom and glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table.  Two hours until sundown.  He still had no idea what he was going to do with – or to – Buffy once they were face to face.  He should really spend this time elaborating on Phase Two of his plan, which currently consisted of: Find Buffy, Make Her Not Insane Anymore.

Or, he could enjoy what could very well be his last few hours among the land of the living and undead.

Dawn came out of the bathroom, clutching the courtesy shampoo with a rapt expression on her face. 

"Wake me when 'Simpsons' comes on," Spike mumbled, and pulled the pillow over his head.

_To Be Continued._


	8. Busy Child

_Title: _Roundabout

_Author: _Serpentine

_Rating: _R

_Disclaimer: _All characters of 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' are used without permission.

_Author's Notes: _This is set post-'Hell's Bells', and while it overlaps some themes of 'Normal Again', for my purposes, that events in that episode haven't occurred.  Both the Bonaventure Hotel and the Mayan nightclub are places I used to go in downtown Los Angeles.  They're worth seeing if you ever have the misfortune of visiting the city.  

_Feedback: _This is my first story posted to fanfiction.net.  I'd appreciate reviews: devilpiglet@yahoo.com.

_Website: _http://www.geocities.com/devilpiglet

***************************************

"Draw her out, Spike.  Engage her, by whatever means necessary.  The more focused she is on external factors – you, in this case – rather than herself, the greater the chance that the true Buffy will be able to reassert control over the body."

Spike paced the lounge of the hotel room and glanced over once more to make sure the door to the bedroom was indeed shut tightly.  "Yeah?  And then what, pray tell?"

There was a strained silence.  "I don't know.  Subdue her if possible.  What little I've been able to uncover indicates that Buffy's disturbance can be reversed by whoever initiated it.  One of the gentlemen from the airport, I'll wager.  For the sake of all that's holy, Spike, _control_ yourself.  We don't know the ringleader, nor do we know how to counteract --"

"Right, right.  Play nice, don't have a bash at 'em.  Looked human, anyways.  No fun to be had there."

"Once we have the information we need, I'll happily join you in giving them their comeuppance," Giles said.  The coldness of his voice took Spike aback.  _So it's Ripper now, is it?_

"Fair enough.  Cheers, mate."  Despite the morbidity of the subject matter, it was as convivial a discussion as he'd ever had with the Watcher.  He hung up and slid the door to the bedroom open, lingering for a moment at the entryway.

Dawn lay on the king-sized bed, happily scanning television channels.  "Can I get pay-per-view?" she asked.

"Sure."  

He'd conferred with Giles; now it was hell-raising time.  The trail from LAX had led them to downtown Los Angeles.  Other sources – Spike's sources – had pointed him to a local Fyarl that had had a run-in with 'a #@!&#% bad-ass human chick', and barely lived to tell about it. 

She was nearby.  Spike could feel it in his bones; that strange tingling they sent up that used to say _Slayer!_ and now said _Buffy!_  

He couldn't tell Dawn, though.  Wouldn't.  If it didn't pan out, or worse, ended badly, he didn't want her to know.  

"Cool."  She frowned.  "Spice?  Why would they make you pay for a cooking channel?"

Spike stepped fully inside and grabbed the remote control.  "No pay-per-view."  He looked around the hotel room again, adjusted his duster for perhaps the fiftieth time that evening.  He was edgy, nervous.  He hadn't left Dawn alone like this since they'd been on the run.  Quick trips to the store or to assuage his appetite, no more than twenty minutes gone.  Tonight was different.  Tonight, if all went well, he'd be returning with her sister.

"So, ah, just gonna hook up with some buddies of mine, see if I can't get a line on Buffy's whereabouts.  Maybe have a bit of a night out with the lads.  You understand, yeah?"

"Uh-huh."  Dawn was skimming the room service menu.  Spike relaxed marginally.  Kid was so glad to have some time to herself, he realized, she wouldn't care if he was going out to feed on a school bus full of Girl Scouts.  He'd arranged for a few of Clem's cousins to case the hotel entrances, make sure Dawn didn't have any unwelcome visitors.  

"Right, then.  Here's some cash," Spike tossed the money on the bed and grinned when she scrambled to retrieve it, "order yourself up some room service.  Burgers and chips, maybe an ice cream sundae.  Sound good?"

"Uh-huh."

"You ask for the name of the person who'll be delivering the food when you order, and then you ask again before you open the door.  Don't answer the phone.  If I'm not back by midnight, put yourself to bed.  Remember –"

"Spike."  

She was going to be fine, Spike assured himself.  Quit acting like an enormous nancy-boy and get on with it.  "See you in a bit, Bit."  Before he knew what he was doing, he bent and kissed the top of her head, hesitating there for the briefest moment.  _Yes, welcome to __Nancy-Boy__Land__.  _

Half an hour later, he had the Fyarl – who went by the name of Marti – pinned against a graffiti-laden wall in the heart of Skid Row.  "Everything," Spike gritted out.  "Tell me what you know."

"Crazy bitch, man!  She kicked my ass six ways from Sunday and left me for dead.  She was with a bunch of guys – humans, too – but they just watched.  She was there on orders, I'm sure of it."

"Orders from who?"

The Fyarl shrugged; it was a disconcerting sight.  "Don't know.  I swear!" he squawked, as Spike delved deeper into his internal organs.  "I owe money around town.  Coulda been anybody."

"Where do I find her now?"

"There's a club they say she hangs out at.  The Mayan.  I don't go by there anymore, so I dunno –"  His last words were lost in a gurgle, as Spike gave his innards a last, vicious twist before dropping him to the garbage-strewn ground.

The Mayan was less than a mile away.  Spike parked around the corner and was inside within minutes.  If he'd learned nothing else over of the last hundred years, Spike knew how to get into clubs.  As he exchanged nods with the bouncer and entered the pulsing, strobe-lit structure, he began to feel some of his old confidence return.  He knew this scene, knew these people.  He might not have the slightest idea how to properly feed and clothe a fifteen-year-old girl, but here, swallowed up by the nightlife, Spike was, well, _Spike._

He liked this place, he mused as he walked through the club.  A 1920s converted theatre with a Latin theme, its four levels were packed with nubile young people, laughing and drinking and loving as if this night would be their last.  What a blast he could have had here just a few years ago.  

He sat at the bar.  And waited.  While the last few weeks had been filled with uncertainty and speculation and doubt, he felt none of that now.  She would show herself here, tonight.  The Fyarl had been a little too helpful, his sources a little too forthcoming.  This was Buffy's way of extending an invitation.

How the flash of movement caught his eye, he couldn't say.  After all, the entire dance floor was a mass of swaying, pulsating bodies.  But hers stood out, as always.  Her dancing wasn't frenzied, but langorous, sensual.  She wore painted-on black pants and a tiny, strappy top that matched her flesh perfectly, making him remember the nights she had sprawled out in his crypt, naked and debauched.  

When he first laid eyes on Buffy she'd been dancing.  She'd been a child then – Dawn's age, he realized.   Carrying on with her friends, carefree and smiling and full of hope for the future.  He had thought nothing of snuffing that hope out, leaving her friends adrift, family bereft.  

Was it himself or Buffy, Spike wondered, who had changed more in the years since?

She was alone on one of the platforms near the stage and he simply watched her, until she finally climbed down and made her way across the floor.  He tossed some bills on the bar and followed.

She pirouetted down to the lower level, where a pounding hip-hop beat made him grimace.  He lost her momentarily as she was swallowed up in the blackness of an unlit, unused corridor.  He reached the end – bathrooms in disrepair – and stopped.

Then she slammed him against a wall, and smiled.  "Hey, baby."

He smiled right back.  "There's my girl."

"I knew you'd come for me."  She leaned in, nipped his bottom lip lightly with her teeth.  "One way or another."

Double entendre Buffy.  Who would have thought?  Oh, he'd forgotten how heady her presence could be.  His control was slipping already, and all she'd done was slap him around a bit.  _Focus._

"What have you been up to, sweet?"  He tried to keep his tone genial.

"Oh, this and that."  She finally backed up, releasing him, and he slumped against the wall, the very picture of carelessness.

"Kicking demon ass all over town, I hear."

She preened.  "Well, I am the Chosen One, aren't I?  This time, somebody _chose_ to reward me for my troubles."

"Reward…?"

"I can see the ocean from my new apartment.  I always wanted to live somewhere like that."  She giggled a little.  "I'll close the drapes when you come over. And those curvy new BMWs?  He got me one.  My boss.  With bags and bags of clothes in the backseat.  From Fred Segal and Neiman's."

This would certainly rock Giles.  The Slayer had been bought off with brand names and picture windows.

"Tell me about him.  Your boss."  He risked a playful nuzzle at her, and she arched eagerly.

"He's rich.  And boring.  And he doesn't care what I do, as long as I take care of problems for him."

"What kind of problems?"

But she was past that.  "Spike…"

"Yes, love?"

"He can get your chip out."

Spike went still, inside and out.  Her words echoed in his head, teasing, beckoning as he stared at her.  Then thoughts came, too quickly, one after another until his brain was simply a blur of blood and sex and freedom: _I'll take her away from her, far away -- Won't let her hurt the little one -- Show her the country – show her the world -- Kiss and kill and shag for nights, years, centuries – I'll _turn_ her, that's what I'll do -- She'll want me to and we'll be together forever, better than it's ever been, we'll finally fit, it'll be bloody fucking _fantastic_…_

He took her then, brutally.  And she reveled in it, calling out his name.  He followed blindly, senses lost to anything but her.  When Spike finally pulled back she was smiling at him ferally.

He put everything he had into keeping his voice steady although he was pretty sure his hands were shaking.  "Come now, my naughty girl.  Time to go home."

She remained clinging to him like a limpet.  "Sure, Spike.  Right after I stop by Angel's and beg his forgiveness."

With an effort he dislodged her – hell of a grip for such a tiny thing, but then, he already knew that.  "Not joking, Buffy.  Get yourself together –" he eyed her disheveled clothing – "and then we're off."

She stared at him, incredulous.  "You can't be –"  He met her gaze with equanimity.

"Spike!  Goddamn you, what are you doing?"

"Giles is meeting us in Sunnydale, and we're going to get this whole mess sorted.  None too soon for my liking, either."  He began buttoning his pants.

"You're out of your goddamn mind!  Everything you've ever wanted is right in front of you and you want to go back to being a whipping boy?  And bring me with you!"

He smiled indulgently at her furious expression.  "Oh, don't look so sad, princess.  You gave it a good try."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

He smirked.  "C'mon, Slayer.  Did you think you could fuck me into following you around?  You're good, love, but not that good."  

"You're dead," she hissed.  "You arrogant asshole.  You _bastard_ –"

"Please.  Look at you," he surveyed her, up and down.  "Trying to be all ruthless and amoral.  Too bad you're not operating on all cylinders."

"Your girlfriend is gone," Buffy shot back.  "Get used to it."

"Get used to what?  You, movin' into her old digs?  I don't think she's cleared out entirely.  Has she?"  Buffy looked away.  "Yeah, that's what I thought.  And you know what else?"  He patted down his pockets for a smoke, seeming to warm to the topic.

"You figure you've hit on something, turning to the dark side and all.  I know how it feels.  But here's the thing –"  He lit a cigarette and enjoyed her vicious glare – "You're not that good at it."

"Not good at it?  Buddy, I was _born _to it.  You're the one who told me that."

He shrugged, nonchalant and freshly satisfied.  "I did at that.  'Course, you were more than half a Slayer at the time.  Now?"  He blew out a stream of nicotine.  Really, Spike thought, smoking added so much texture to a conversation.  "Now," he went on, "you're nothing but a cheap Glory knockoff.  And unless you're looking to compete with her in the Overstyled Hair category, you're not even in the running for Bad-Ass Bitch of the Universe."

She flung herself at him, propelled by rage and pride, and it would have been a near thing had she not suddenly crumpled and fallen mid-leap.  He knelt next to her and cautiously extended a hand.  "Buffy --?"  _Could it be? _ Her head was bent, face hidden.

A voice, scraping and rusty from disuse, from beyond the curtain of her hair.  "Pr – Present."

"Oh, God, Buffy…"  He scooped her up in his arms, this broken girl who never stopped fighting.  Words were pouring out of his mouth now, bottled-up revelations and pleas and utter nonsense.  

"So long, baby, I was afraid you wouldn't come back – Dawn'll be so happy, she's been miserable without you; both of us, lost – how do you feel?  Are you ill?  Come, just hold on to Spike and we'll get out right out of here.  Buffy, I love you, always, ever –"

"Spike."  Wavering fingers pressed against his lips, and he paused in his babbling.

"No time, Spike.  She'll be back."  Even as she spoke faint tremors wracked her body.  He watched in horror, held her tighter.  But when she looked up at him, she was still Buffy.

"How do I stop it, Buffy?  Who did this to you?"

"Kehoe," she breathed.

That's more like it, Spike thought. Now that he had a name, he'd relish tearing this poxy town apart until he found the meddlesome bastard –

Then he realized that Buffy was looking past him, at the entrance to the corridor.  Blue-gray light illuminated the space, and Spike could see a small group of suited men gathered.

"Which one?" he whispered, but the words faded into a hiss as he glanced back down at her.

She was convulsing, and his own inhuman strength could barely contain her spasms.  Limbs flailed and Spike suddenly knew he was watching a struggle for the body and soul of Buffy Summers.  Knew, too, not sure how, that the men at the other end of the hall had provoked it.

"Make it stop!" he roared at them.  They simply smiled, amused.

She wasn't getting any better, and Spike had a feeling that he was ill-equipped to help Buffy regain her subsumed morality.  Fine, then.  There were other ways he could be of use.  Rip those sneering bastards open, for one thing.  Make them tell him how to stop it.  Oh, how they would suffer, all his skills put to use – 

Even as intention rose in him so did the familiar forewarning of the chip, a buzz and crackle of pain that he ignored.  Maybe he could pull it off in time…

He lunged, was halfway across the passageway when he staggered, brought low by the radiating agony in his brain.  Still he stumbled on, aware of their far-off laughter, of Buffy behind him, writhing, fighting herself.  

And slowly he realized he couldn't do it.  Wasn't strong enough to take them down, not like this.  Didn't even know where to start.  Another failure, when he'd promised her this time he'd come through.  Were the walls laughing at him?  Or was it just the men?  Or the chip?  Silly Spike and his foolishness.  He heard Giles' voice, tight with disapproval like the headmaster of a hundred years ago: _Spike, _control _yourself__. _ _I tried_, he argued soundlessly, _but it all got away from me.  It does that, you see, so often_…His vision hazed, though from the pain or tears he couldn't say and what did it matter anyway?  _Sorry, my love, my sweet, my life…_

He was crumpled on the stinking, sticky floor now, and one of the men kicked him in the gut as he advanced on Buffy.  Buffy who was huddled just as he was, the two of them wounded, whimpering animals.  Caught in traps of someone else's making.  

So sorry, Buffy, so sorry… 

From the entrance to the corridor, an explosion that sounded to Spike's already ringing ears like the boom of a cannon.  Plaster fell around him like chalky, dusty rain.  The abruptness of it all pierced his heartsick surrender; the acrid smell of gunfire had the strange effect of clearing his senses.  He braced himself on his hands and rose, slowly, to his feet.

And promptly dropped back to his knees.

At the mouth of the hallway Dawn stood, Spike's shotgun hoisted on her bony shoulder.  She jerked it once, menacingly, and the three men who blocked her backed away.  They formed a motley group: Buffy prostrate, in the throes of something ravenous and evil; Spike kneeling like the supplicant he could never be; four suited men who watched this lanky teenager as they would a hairy, poisonous spider.

"Dawn," Spike mumbled, surprised he could form words.

"I found it in the trunk," she said.  "Remember?  You made me practice on mailboxes."

_To Be Continued._

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	9. Exeunt

_Title: _Roundabout

_Author: _Serpentine

_Rating: _R

_Disclaimer: _All characters of 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' are used without permission.

_Author's Notes: _This is set post-'Hell's Bells', and while it overlaps some themes of 'Normal Again', for my purposes, that events in that episode haven't occurred.    

_Feedback: _This is my first story posted to fanfiction.net.  I'd appreciate reviews: devilpiglet@yahoo.com.

_Website: _http://www.geocities.com/devilpiglet

***************************************

For several moments, the players merely stood and stared at each other.  Dawn was now alone at one end of the corridor, and Spike, Buffy and the men in black (suits) were gathered haphazardly at the other.  Spike had managed to get himself upright for the third time tonight, but remained staring stupidly at the haze of smoke that slowly dissipated from Dawn's direction. 

"Spike?" Dawn asked, and he realized that she was waiting on instructions from him.  At this sign of uncertainty, one goon began to step closer.  Spike snapped out of his stupor and went to her side.

"Give it here," he said, and she handed over the gun without protest. He turned to face the men.

"Everybody's who's not Kehoe can leave," he told them.  

No one moved.  Spike raised the shotgun.

The three largest hastily trooped past Spike and out of the hallway.  After a moment, the smaller, older fellow that remained belatedly tried to follow.  Spike grabbed him up by his pressed shirt, nearly lifting him off his feet.  

"Don't think so, mate.  You must be the man of the hour."  

Relieved of the shotgun, Dawn seemed suddenly deflated.  She walked slowly past Spike to crouch at her sister's side.  "Buffy?" she asked softly.  "Is that you?"  

The was no response from the whimpering, jerking figure.  Dawn reached out a hand to still Buffy's flailing, and Buffy's arm shot out at the contact, backhanding Dawn.  Dawn fell back, confused and frightened.  Spike watched the exchange with growing disquiet.  

"We're out of here," he said, whether to himself or the others he would never know.  "Dawn, come back here.  Come, now," he snapped, when looked uncertainly down at her sister.  Never letting Kehoe out of his sight, Spike walked to Buffy and scooped her up in his arms.

She mumbled unintelligibly, fought him, cried out in a pain Spike could only imagine.  He wanted to sit with her for hours and soothe her and pet her until she calmed, until she was untroubled.  

He settled for a light brush of his lips on her forehead.  A little whisper-kiss, but she seemed to still briefly.  When the convulsions started again, he nodded curtly to Dawn.  "Out the back," he said tightly.  "There's an exit behind the deejay booth on the first floor."  

They formed a curious procession through the club: the lanky girl who led; the twitchy, middle-aged gentleman who trotted nervously behind her; and finally the punk, steel-eyed and sinister, carrying a thrashing young woman in his arms.

The crowd stirred uneasily as they walked through the belly of the club, then up the stairs to the main level.  But no one interfered.  Even the burly, unruffled bouncers simply stepped aside as they passed. 

As they neared the back exit, Spike could hear sirens approaching. Half a mile, maybe less, he surmised. Their little floor show was running out of time.  
He poked Kehoe with the shotgun, hard, between the man's shoulder blades. "Keep moving," he ordered. In front of them, Dawn's head weaved and bobbed as she made her way through the crowd. 

Finally, _finally_ they were outside, and Spike briefly entertained the idea of killing Kehoe then and there -- for all the trouble he'd created, the hurt he'd caused Dawn and Buffy, and for the sheer pleasure of watching the man die slowly and unpleasantly from a gut shot.  
But someone had to fix Buffy. And according to Giles, Kehoe might be their only hope.  
Afterwards, Spike comforted himself, after Buffy was right again and Dawn had her sister back and the Summers girls were safely ensconced in Sunnydale where they belonged, then Spike would have his opportunity.  
Chip or no.  
"What now?" Dawn asked.  
Spike glared at her. "You know where the car is parked," he said sarcastically.  "Lead the way."

Dawn blanched a little at his tone.  "You're going to be really mad when we get home, aren't you?" she asked in a small voice.

He cocked his head at her, and his gaze gentled.  "No."

Dawn let out a breath.

"I'm really mad _now_.  I'm about ready to take a strap to your bony ass," he continued furiously, and Dawn's eyes widened.  "What the bloody hell were you thinking?  Did your brain turn to fucking tapioca since I last saw you?  You could have been killed back there.  I've a mind to do you in myself.  How the hell did you even get in, with this monster?"  He waved the shotgun recklessly, and both Kehoe's and Dawn's attention followed the direction of the barrel.  He shifted Buffy's weight with his free arm and went on.  "How did you even get out of the hotel?  Where were Clem's boys? And didn't I _distinctly tell you _when we practiced that you were only to use this gun if a boy got fresh with you –"

Footsteps sounded behind them.  Running, and drawing ever closer.  Spike's hand tightened around the shotgun, and Dawn was afraid for a moment that he'd mow them all down out of sheer frustration.  

Instead, he gathered Buffy closer to him, prodded Kehoe with a rough kick, and looked back at Dawn.  "Had enough of the Father Knows Fucking Best routine anyway," he said coldly, and Dawn flinched.  

"Go," he told her.  Dawn took off, chastened, running as much from Spike's wrathful displeasure as from their unknown pursuers.

Fifty feet around the corner was the DeSoto, and Dawn hurriedly yanked the doors open.  Spike pushed her into the backseat, then laid Buffy down carefully next to her.  "You," he motioned to Kehoe.  "Up front with me."  Kehoe slid into the passenger seat without argument.  Spike then transferred the gun back to Dawn.  "You keep that muzzle trained on the back of his head," he ordered her, noting with bitter amusement Kehoe's wince.  "If he moves, pull the trigger."  He shut the doors and went to the driver's side, shutting the door just as six extremely burly bouncers rounded the corner with a couple of LAPD officers in tow.  

_Let's fly, Pigeon._

***************************************

Fly they did, through the deserted downtown streets and onto the freeway – which one Spike didn't know.  He only wanted to make tracks away from the area, until the police presence receded and they could safely return to the hotel.  He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, because if he didn't he'd tear his hair out by the seldom-seen roots.  They drove for long minutes in silence.  Dawn restrained Buffy as best she could, while balancing the shotgun precariously.  She cradled Buffy's head in her lap, crooning to her softly.

"Tell me what you did to her," Spike said to Kehoe.

The little man eyed Spike with no small amount of trepidation.  He seemed to know there was no good answer.

Spike's right hand left the steering wheel and balled into a fist.

"It was a-a-a spell!  An enchantment!"

"A spell.  Color me surprised," came Dawn's peevish voice from the backseat.

"Keep going," Spike prompted him.  

"It's," Kehoe swallowed audibly, "it's Polynesian.  The Huna teachings, the old ways.  I couldn't possibly explain it to an uninitiated such as yourself."

Spike digested this, nodded.  "Roll down your window," he told Kehoe.  Kehoe, confused, stared at Spike, who stared back impassively.  Kehoe did as he was told.

"Dawn?"  Spike's voice was deceptively calm.

"Um…yeah?"

"Shoot Mr. Kehoe.  From an angle, if you please.  I don't fancy brains on the dash unless I've put them there myself."

"Wait!"  Kehoe was visibly shaking now.

"It's – I – the effect of the spell was to remove her _aumakua_.  Her higher self," Kehoe explained.  "Leaving her devoid of compassion, of inhibitions.  That was the kind of Slayer I wanted.  One who would understand my needs, and satisfy them."

Spike's balled fist shot out, seemingly of its own accord.  The blow caught Kehoe on the chin and knocked the man against the passenger door.  Spike hissed as pain rocketed through his brain. 

"Bastard," Spike ground out.  "You touched her – you fucking _molested _her –"

"No!" Kehoe yelped.  "I swear, I didn't lay a hand on her.  I had no prurient interest in her, I assure you."  

"You probably like, like, sheep and stuff," Dawn piped up from the backseat, while Spike, in his relief, found himself wondering how many years it had been since he'd heard the word 'prurient' spoken aloud.  

"Then what?" Spike asked. "What did you want with her?"

Kehoe rubbed his faintly wrinkled forehead.  "In my line of work, I deal with many…unsavory characters.  Individuals that are simply too powerful for a normal human – even a wealthy and influential one – to combat successfully.  I had assorted demons in my employ, but they were a notoriously unreliable lot."  

Spike knew this to be true, and was pretty sure he had pieced together the situation.  "So, let me see if I've got this right," he said carefully.  "You figured with a Slayer – _the_ Slayer – on the payroll, you'd clean up your monster messes around town.  Accounts receivable, Welcome Wagon, that sort of thing."

Kehoe's shoulders slumped.  "Yes."

Spike shook his head.  "You were using her as _muscle_?"

Kehoe nodded.

"Well."  Spike thought for a moment.  "That's…that's actually quite…"

"Lame," Dawn supplied.

"Yeah," Spike said.  "That's…really…_lame_."

Kehoe frowned.  "Then why did no one do it before?" he asked a bit huffily.

"Because it's _so lame_," Dawned shouted, and kicked the back of Kehoe's seat.  

"All right, then," Spike said. "We're going to bring her higher self back, to stay.  Is that clear?"  His eyes pinned Kehoe.

"I need materials.  Unique ingredients that can't be found within a thousand miles of here."

Spike smiled.  "Oh, I wager they can be found very close to here.  You seem a practical sort of man.  Cautious.  Prepared for any eventuality.  I think you have plenty of 'ingredients' squirreled away in whatever hole you call home.  Isn't that so?" Kehoe hesitated, then hung his head.

"That's more like it," Spike muttered.  Kehoe's voice trembled as he directed them toward Buffy's release.

"Take then 10 west.  It ends at the Pacific Coast Highway.  My estate is in the Pacific Palisades…"

To Spike, Kehoe's words were sweet salvation.  His focus whittled to a pinpoint, a tiny glowing promise.  It guided him across the sprawling wasteland of Los Angeles; it blocked out the wrenching sounds of Buffy's miserable struggles; it ignored the hurt and fear that emanated from Dawn.  It was singular and without dispute.

_I will make this right again.  _

_For once._

_I will make something right._

_To Be Continued._


	10. Coming Around Again

_Title: _Roundabout

_Author: _Serpentine

_Rating: _R

_Disclaimer: _All characters of 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' are used without permission.

_Author's Notes: _This is set post-'Hell's Bells', and while it overlaps some themes of 'Normal Again', for my purposes, that events in that episode haven't occurred.    

_Feedback: _This is my first story posted to fanfiction.net.  I'd appreciate reviews: devilpiglet@yahoo.com.

_Website: _http://www.geocities.com/devilpiglet

***************************************

            Kehoe's place seemed deserted when they pulled into the wide circular driveway.  

            "You live with anybody?" Spike demanded.  "Bodyguard, housekeeper?"

            "The maid has the weekends off," Kehoe answered.  "And you already chased off my men."

            Spike glanced at the backseat.  Buffy had been nearly impossible to control as they grew closer to their destination.  Even now, bruises were beginning to bloom faintly on Dawn's skin.  The…other Buffy had not appeared since their encounter at the club, but Spike wasn't sure that Buffy's condition now was preferable.  She had worked herself into a frenzy and with her considerable strength, he worried that this could go on for hours.

            He motioned Kehoe out of the car, then retrieved Buffy from Dawn's strained grasp.  He didn't look at Dawn, only waited until she scooted out of the backseat and then slammed the door behind her.  He pulled Buffy to his chest and listened to Kehoe unlocking the front door of the house.

Once inside, Spike, took a cursory look around.  The place was less like a home, he observed, and more like a museum – beautiful, clinical, lacking any discernable expression of life.  Dawn's eyes widened at the obvious affluence of the furnishings and artwork, and Spike noticed that her gaze lingered on the water beyond the sliding glass doors of the patio.  

            Kehoe reluctantly led them upstairs, past numerous guest rooms and lounges until they finally reached the master suite.  The man bypassed the sleeping area and instead began rummaging in what looked like an enormous walk-in closet.  Rather than clothes, however, this little room held an assortment of magical materials – offering bowls; ancient, crumbling statuary; scrying orbs and several unidentifiable liquids in amber-colored flasks.  The whole setup looked like nothing so much as a miniature Magic Box – and wouldn't the witchlets have a blast here?  

            At the thought he felt a sudden pang, followed quickly by loathing.  He was _not_ homesick for Sunnydale.

            The icy metal of the shotgun's muzzle brushed Kehoe's ear, and the older man jumped.  Spike smiled wryly.  "Go to it, chum.  You've got one minute to gather up what you need.  You can try all the trickery you care to, but bear in mind: if this reversal doesn't work, I've got no use for you at all.  Do I?"

            Kehoe grimaced at him, but immediately started assembling the necessary tools.  His hands shook under Spike's watchful gaze, and Dawn's contemptuous one.

            Standing there in the doorway to the closet, hearing Dawn's breath at his back as it had been for weeks now, Spike felt utterly spent.  It had been a fifteen hour drive from Texas – had they only arrived in Los Angeles this morning?  Impossible.  Seeing Buffy again after so long – and the memory of what had happened next.  He looked down at her.  She was just a wisp of a thing, but his arms were starting to ache.  Ponce, he chastised himself.  And he knew he still hadn't recovered from the vision of Dawn, facing down these latest villains with Spike's shotgun the only thing standing between her and certain death.  He might never be the same again, he thought with growing ire, and it would serve the silly child right if he hung her up by her shiny hair –

            "This is everything," Kehoe announced stiffly, and Spike brought his attention back to their present circumstances.  He inspected the items Kehoe had selected.

            "Thought you said this was old religion," Spike groused suspiciously.  "I don't see anything special – The _Nathor__ Book of Shadows_?  Can find that in any glow-in-the-dark bookstore."  He flipped idly through the grimoire's moldy pages.

            "Don't touch that!" Kehoe said tersely, and Spike raised his eyes in ominous inquiry.

            "It's required in the ritual.  You – your nature – you'll mar its purity."  Spike backed off sliently, still watching Kehoe, who walked to the center of the bedroom.  

            "The Huna religion focuses on spiritual peace, unity with self and nature.  To divest Miss Summers of her higher self, certain…perversions of the tradition were required.  That is where the magical influence is implicated."  Kneeling on the plushly carpeted floor, Kehoe began to fastidiously arrange the Circle.

            Spike placed Buffy on the bed for the moment, bracing her legs and gripping her cold hands in his.  "Dawn."

            His tone was utterly aloof, Dawn noted apprehensively, and he still wasn't looking at her.  Spike had never been this angry with her before.  She didn't think she'd seen Spike this angry with anyone before, although she was certain Buffy had tormented him skillfully during their acquaintance.  

            "Run downstairs now.  Go look at the water or something."

            "But I want to –"

            "Get _out_," he barked.

            Her head lowered.  "Fine."  She turned toward the door.

            "Stay!" Kehoe called after her.  Off Spike's murderous look, he explained.  "Two beings are needed to call up the powers.  This is to prevent unauthorized, self-gratifying invocations."  Kehoe at least had the decency to appear to understand the irony of his admission.

            "So what?" Spike shrugged.  "You and me'll do just fine.  Now get to work."

            Kehoe shook his head.  "Forgive me, but you are not adequate to participate.  You are – how shall I put this? – corrupted.  A vampire is the bastardization of humanity, and the _Ho'omana_ will reject you, and our plea, as an insult."

            Spike waited impatiently.

            "I need the girl –" Kehoe nodded at Dawn – "to complete the Circle."

            "The hell you do," Spike snapped.  "You think I'm letting you come near her with your bollixed-up magics?"

            Kehoe was visibly daunted by Spike's reaction, but he held fast.  "Then there's nothing I can do.  You may as well wait for your friend to die, slowly and in significant pain."

            "Um, hello?" Dawn said.  "Standing here, still in the room."  She turned her attention to Kehoe.  "Hook me up."

            "Don't touch her," Spike told Kehoe.  He grabbed Dawn by the arm and dragged her to the other end of the room.  

            "Now you listen to me, little girl –"

            Dawn's chin jutted out.  "Remember what happened the last time you started sentence like that?"

            Spike thought back.  _'I hate you!'  'I hate you too!' _ Spike, cooling his heels outside the bathroom door.

            He opened his mouth to threaten her with bodily harm, because it was all his overtaxed brain could come up with.  She plowed on before he could speak.

            "You _cannot_ stop from doing this.  If it'll help Buffy – make her like she was before…God, Spike.  I would do anything for that.  So would you."  He looked away abruptly.

            "Spike, it's _Buffy_."

            And it all came down to that one irrefutable fact, didn't it?  On the altar of Buffy, what wouldn't they sacrifice?

            Spike scowled.  "Don't think this makes up for your foolishness before.  Soon as I get the chance, I promise you I'm going to beat your ass raw –"

            He broke off.  Dawn was smiling at him, hopefully.  His brow furrowed.  "What?"

            "Then…after that you'll forgive me?"

            He suddenly wanted to sit down, to fully digest the unavoidable realization that he was, forever, beholden to females with the last name of Summers.  He had the odd, abrupt mental image of Dawn and Buffy's tiny hands wrapped unyielding around his dessicated heart.

            He cleared his throat, tried to sound gruff.  "Yeah.  After that I'll forgive you."  

            And then there was hugging again, and Spike wondered if he would ever become so used to this as to take it for granted.  Not anytime soon, he reasoned.  Dawn released him finally, and Spike's gaze locked on Kehoe again.  "What kind of involvement are we talking about?"

            "Nominal.  Her presence is required, as a kind of witness.  The activities necessary to harness the _aumakua_will be performed by me."

            Spike said nothing, but it was clear to the three of them that the decision had been made.  Dawn returned to the center of the room and knelt beside Kehoe.  He took her hand and began to sprinkle a reflective, charcoal-covered powder across her fingertips.

            "Watch it," Spike growled.  "In the future, keep your hands off the girl."

            Kehoe spared him a withering stare.  Damn, Spike thought.  The old boy was becoming less fearful by the second.  Have to do something about that.  

            "It's her _entre_ into the spirit world we will be petitioning.  It must be seen that she comes as a humble servant."

            Spike didn't argue anymore, but the glinting greyness on Dawn's hands made him suddenly restive, uneasy. 

            _I am…_

            Candles flickered in the darkness, and Spike wondered when the lights had gone out.  Had they ever been on?  Dawn's face was eerily skeletal in the glow.

            And now the chanting began, because what would a depraved mystical ceremony be without a little somber droning?  Spike rolled his shoulders, settled himself on the bed next to Buffy.  She, at least, appeared to be merely tangential to this particular effort.  Neither Kehoe nor Dawn spared her a glance as they concentrated.

            "An appeal from your slave Rodger, member of the Order of Kane," Kehoe intoned.  "I beseech you, Ku, to reconcile the Afflicted One.  Restore her _aumakua_, extend the silver cord to _unihipili_ and _uhane_.  Make her whole again."

            There was angry rumble, but to Spike it seemed soundless; it was vibration, shifting planes of disharmony.  He held on to Buffy tightly, although Dawn and Kehoe seemed unperturbed.  Unaware, in fact.  To Spike's supreme anxiety, Dawn appeared consumed by the ritual, although she took no active part.  Her eyes were glassy and without focus, her lips parted slightly.

_I am the very soul..._

            Beneath him, Buffy's thrashing became, inconceivably, even more desperate.  It was all Spike could do to keep them both from tumbling onto the floor.  Finally he gave in and pinned her, wrists above her head, legs between his.  She was beyond awareness, little more than an animal now.  The suffocating, soundless tremors increased.

            "_Manawa!_ Now is the moment of power!  Now is the triumph of self!"  Kehoe's voice was wild and demented.  Spike could no longer hear the words, or see the two kneeling figures; everything was blunted and blurred until unrecognizable.  Distantly he could still feel Buffy's writhing body, and he wrapped himself tightly around it.  There was nothing else, no room, no house, no ocean outside or constellations above them.  Just this bizarre blitzkrieg, the music of a thousand muted roars, a hundred thousand silenced screams of anguish.

            And then the screams coalesced into one: Buffy's.  

_I am the very soul of vexation._

***************************************

            Spike hadn't felt this hung over in a long time.  The prospect of opening his eyes was an unworkable one, so instead he lay very still – very, very still – and tried to think of a time when he'd felt worse.  Being dumped by Dru in a Brazilian café, of all places, came to mind.  So did having a large church organ dumped _on_ him.  But neither quite captured his current head-to-toe wretchedness.

            Underneath him, a warm body stirred.  Spike's interest was mildly aroused.  Well, now.  Things couldn't be all bad.  He risked a glance downward.

            It was Buffy.  She groaned and put her hands to her temples, then opened one eye and looked at him balefully.

            Then it all came rushing back – a bloody kitchen knife and Buffy smirking 'Get down with the sickness' and he and Dawn going fugitive and drinking Buffy's blood at the Mayan and Kehoe saying '_certain…perversions…_' and Dawn asking '_you'll forgive me?_'

            For once, there were no words in his throat.  So he just held her, perhaps too forcefully, but she didn't object.  She held on to him too.

***************************************

            An hour and a half later, Spike, Buffy and Dawn were in the suite at the Bonaventure.  As he slid the last of the locks on the door into place, he heard Dawn ask, "What did you do with Kehoe?"

            He didn't turn around when he answered.  "Chained him to the sink in his bathroom.  Guess you were too out of it to notice."

            She and Buffy were out of it yet, he observed.  Questions could wait until tomorrow.  Or never.  Now there was just, secretly, love and relief and joy crowding in him, elbowing for space in a heart not meant to expand.

            Buffy had been subdued since they left Kehoe's.  It was she who had shaken Dawn from the ritual-induced reverie, and then held her shocked and elated sister to her breast.  Buffy buried her face in Dawn's silky hair, and watched Spike over Dawn's head all the while.

Spike knew, just from her gaze, that she remembered everything of the last weeks.  But that, too, could wait until tomorrow.

            Now Dawn was leading him by the hand into the bedroom, where Buffy was already curled up on the bed.  She blinked at him drowsily as he walked in, then moved over.  He didn't resist as Dawn pushed him gently down on the mattress next to Buffy, and then settled herself at his side.  In seconds both sisters were asleep.

            "My girls," Spike murmured.  He wrapped an arm around each of them, let himself be lulled into oblivion by the twin rhythms of their stomachs heaving with deep, healthy, sustaining breath.

            "My girls."

_To Be Continued._


	11. Healer To Heaven, Hunter Comes Home

_Title: _Roundabout

_Author: _Serpentine

_Rating: _R

_Disclaimer: _All characters of 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' are used without permission.

_Author's Notes: _This is set post-'Hell's Bells', and while it overlaps some themes of 'Normal Again', for my purposes, that events in that episode haven't occurred.    

_Feedback: _This is my first story posted to fanfiction.net.  I'd appreciate reviews: devilpiglet@yahoo.com.

_Website: _http://www.geocities.com/devilpiglet

***************************************

            "Housekeeping?"  The heavy metal door lock jangled.  "Good morning, do you need housekeeping?"

            Buffy jumped out of bed and ran to the next room.  "We're fine," she called out automatically.  "Thank you."

            Beyond the door she could hear Spanish chatter and the squeaking of wheels slowly fade into the distance.

            Buffy remained standing motionless in the lounge of the hotel suite.  Her eyes traveled over the desk, and the closet, and the loveseat as if expecting them to provide answers to questions she couldn't articulate. 

            Turning around, she saw that Spike and Dawn were still out cold.  She watched them for long moments, until Dawn snuffled and kicked Spike in her sleep, and Spike snuffled back and rolled away, still unconscious.  

            Feeling suddenly unsteady, she walked to the sofa and sat down.  She crossed her legs primly and wished for something a little less revealing than the skank-wear she had pulled on twenty-four hours ago.

            Then she remembered the way she had eagerly wriggled out of the pants, desperate for Spike to take her.

            God!  It wasn't fair.  If there were any mercy in the world she'd at least be spared the memories of the last five weeks.  Then she'd be able to claim ignorance, widen her eyes in shock and horror when told of her recent transgressions.

            The images rose up in her then, sickening in their clarity and brilliance: facing down Willow and Tara and Xander, confident in her ability to overpower them; the smell of sulfur, sweet to her senses at that moment, as she set the Magic Box alight; laughing and chatting with Rodger Kehoe; butchering countless demons at his behest.

            Chasing her sister through the streets of Sunnydale, wanting only to see Dawn's blood spilled.

            Buffy gagged.  She dashed to the marble bathroom, barely making it in time to drop to the freezing tile floor before retching uncontrollably.  She vomited until there was nothing left in her stomach.

            Dawn found her there, crouched over the toilet and still heaving.  She shuffled into the bathroom and dampened a hand towel under the faucet, then firmly grasped Buffy by the shoulders and tugged her up.

            "Here," Dawn said sleepily, as she dabbed the towel around Buffy's slack mouth.  "Nothing like a round of barfing to start your day off right."

            Buffy swiped at her eyes, which had begun to water.  "Guess I had some bad…food."

            "Guess so," Dawn agreed softly.  She gave Buffy a quick, impulsive hug.  "I'm so glad you're back.  I mean, really back."

            "Me too."  Buffy smiled wanly.  

            She could live off this sight forever: Dawn, happy and healthy and safe, beaming at her in a temporary respite from sisterly sniping.  And Spike in the next room, not killing and maiming but not bitching about it either.  Yes.  Everything was perfect now, just the way it was.

            _Oh, how do I not want to go back to Sunnydale?  Let me count the ways…_

            "Dawn," Buffy cleared her throat, trailed off, looked around for help.  The shower curtain and bath mat remained impervious to her plight.    

            "I am _so sorry_.  The things I did…I don't know what came over me, I don't know…"

            "Shhh."  Dawn rubbed Buffy's bare arm.  "It doesn't matter now.  It's over, and you're home!"  She paused.  "Well, not_ home_ home, of course.  But we can go back today!  I can't wait to find out how Xander and Tara are.  And Willow too.  I can't really be mad at her crack-magic car accident anymore, huh?  Sorta pales in comparison."

            Buffy blanched, and Dawn went on hurriedly, "Not that Willow has all the, um, good deeds stored up that you do.  I mean, cosmically, you're still on the plus side."  She looked at Buffy expectantly.  "Right?"

            _'How many people are alive because of you?  How many have you saved?  One dead girl doesn't tip the scales!'_

            In her mind, Spike's voice merged into Tara's; kind Tara who said to her about death, _'It's always sudden.'_

            There was a sound from the next room.  Dawn jumped.  Buffy realized that she was covered in gooseflesh.

            Spike appeared in the doorway to the bathroom, rubbing the back of his head and looking for all the world like an exceptionally elongated eight-year-old boy.  His hair stood up in stubborn curls, and he eyed them blearily.

            As she and Dawn looked back at him, Buffy wondered for the first time what he might see – when his gaze seemed to feast on them in the same manner that he had once feasted on the lifeblood of other girls.  Maybe that propelled him now, Buffy ruminated.  Maybe he missed the sensation of consuming someone, drinking them up until he lived again through them.

            "Don't be scared," Dawn told her.  "His hair is like that every night he gets up.  He'll fix it in a minute."

            "Ha, ha," Spike grumbled, but he was looking at Buffy.

            "Are you still mad at me?" Dawn asked.

            "Yes."

            "Mad about what?" Buffy asked.

            Spike just shook his head and wandered into the lounge.  After a moment, Buffy and Dawn followed.  

            He was rummaging through the honor bar, tossing honeyed peanuts and diet sodas onto the Berber carpeting.  Buffy hung back, unsure, but Dawn walked up behind him and began smoothing his tousled hair back while he sat.  It was an intimate gesture, and Buffy felt abruptly excluded.

            "Mad about what?" Buffy asked again, and Spike stood.  He was holding a a package of peppered beef jerky.

            God, this awkwardness was cruel.  She could tell that Spike felt it, too, in the way relaxed marginally under Dawn's gentle touch, and in the way he avoided her when once he would have done anything to remain her satellite.

            "Go on," Spike said.  "Tell your sister what you got up to last night."

            Dawn grabbed the beef jerky out of Spike's hand and her face took on an expression of practiced innocence that was gratifyingly familiar to Buffy.  

            "I rescued you," Dawn said airily, and Spike guffawed.

            "Nearly got yourself bloody killed is what you did, and robbed me of the pleasure."  He finally addressed himself to Buffy.  "The mad thing stole my shotgun and faced down those bastards yesterday.  Scared me senseless, she did."  His voice became gruff.  "And she rescued me."

            Buffy didn't know what to say, but she was okay with that.  It probably wouldn't change anytime soon.

            "Spike didn't know," Dawn said hastily.  "He had Clem's cousins guarding me so nothing bad would happen."

            "Like you firing a gun in a crowded theatre?" Spike asked, snark returned in full force.  "And speaking of Clem's boys –"

            "Oh!  I've been waiting to tell you for so long!" Dawn interrupted excitedly.  Buffy sat down, suspecting she'd be glad she did.

            "I left the hotel room right after you did.  I mean,_ right_ after.  I took the stairs while you waited for the elevator.  I was already hiding in the backseat when the valet guy brought the car around.  That's why they never saw me leave.  And then I came into the club through the kitchen door.  I hid the gun under an apron."

            Spike fixed Dawn with the evil eye – and when one was dealing with a morally bankrupt vampire, Buffy mused, that wasn't just idle posturing.  She, on the other hand, couldn't bring herself to castigate Dawn.  

            "Wow," she heard herself say.  "Those monks didn't spare any effort, did they?"

            Dawn grinned.  "When they made me…"

            "…They broke the mold," Buffy finished.  She could see the humor in the situation, although maybe that was just residual BadBuffy.  Spike, for his part, did not seem to have recovered entirely from last night's ordeal.  Against all reason, he seemed to have aged considerably.

            Dawn shrugged.  "I'm mystical, not stupid."  A lock of hair fell in her face.  Grimacing, she pushed it away.  "And I smell like smoke.  I'm gonna take a shower."  She brightened.  "I haven't tried out the Jacuzzi yet."

            "Knock yourself out," Spike said.  Dawn tossed him the jerky and he caught it easily.  Effortlessly, Buffy thought.  He and Dawn were in tune; it was she who was discordant.  She heard the bathroom door click shut.

            Spike wandered around the suite, edging around the heavy, drawn curtains around which sunlight flared.  _Poor Spike.  He always goes back to what hurts him most.  _

            She wondered at this new forebearance she felt toward him.  Had she left behind old angers when she escaped her latest, freakiest incarnation, like a snake that sloughed off venom with skin?  And when the hell had she become so damn introspective, anyway?  

She was Buffy again, one hundred percent, no question, but felt at once greater understanding and less certainty.  The world seemed more full-bodied, as if a whole new dimension had unfolded.

Yeah, that'd be the psycho-killer perspective.  Everything looks different from this side of the murderous rampage.

"How do you feel?" Spike asked, studiously averting his gaze.

"Hung over," she answered truthfully.  "Groggy, like when you've slept too long.  And general, all-around weirdness."

"Guess you'll be wanting to head home soon." 

A short, panicked laugh slipped out before she could stop it.  His eyes jumped to hers.

Oh, it was still there, that intensity.  She still sizzled from the inside out when he looked at her like that, sizzled in places that really should be taking a breather right about now.  His hand on the back of his neck, his face so terribly naked…he'd never been more inviting than he was now.

            And she would have given a lot – a whole hell of a lot – to hurl herself into his embrace, to bury her head in the hollow between his shoulder and collarbone that she had once, many midnights ago, claimed as hers.

            If she did, she knew without a doubt that he would cradle her there, cuddle her close and murmur soothing nonsense despite the fact that she had never offered him similar comfort or compassion.  Because her unhappiness was his woe; because he'd help her friends, useless and bumbling though he considered them, if it pleased her; because he'd goof endlessly with Dawn if he thought it would coax a smile from her.

            And today – 

            -- With her sister splashing happily in the bathtub like a child, the sound of the water dim and becalming to Buffy's pulsing brain

            -- With the early afternoon streaking yellow across the room, teasing Spike's bare skin

            -- With the furniture of Buffy's world suddenly casting shadows she hadn't seen before

            One thought screamed in her brain, battered against its confines, refused to shut up until she listened.

_I was wrong about him.  Wrong, wrong, wrong in so many ways, and I know I should probably be thinking about begging my friends to forgive me and figuring out how I'm going to make restitution to Anya for damage to the Box without selling her my firstborn child assuming I live long enough to have one but – _

_            Damnit, was I ever wrong._

            Because she'd had a taste of true evil, in these past weeks.  And Spike wasn't it.

            The thing that had uncoiled inside of her, spread like a virus until Buffy had been all but obliterated – that was evil.  The memory of it was still on her fingertips and tongue, and she didn't know if she'd ever feel rinsed of it.  

            But she remembered what Spike had felt like on her fingertips and tongue, as well.  So different from this, she almost couldn't believe she'd ever despised the sensation of him lingering on her flesh.  Spike had been tobacco and old leather, the frequent tang of liquor or barbecue sauce.  

            And rapture.

            She'd been so consumed with throwing 'William the Bloody, scourge of Europe' back in his pretty face that she hadn't notice the title no longer fit.  She had a sudden, irrepressible image of trying to explain this revelation to Giles, or maybe Xander: _'And Buffy, what makes you so sure he's not really evil?'  'Um, process of elimination.'_

            "I'll let you get cleaned up," Spike said, startling her out of her reverie.  He nodded to the bathroom.  "I don't know what the kid does in there, but if you want to use it sometime today you may have to break the door down."  He gave her a quick, assessing glance.  "Shouldn't be a problem."

            "Right – right," Buffy answered nervously. She couldn't tell what he was thinking – that was new.  Usually Spike's every fleeting emotion etched itself across his features, danced in his eyes.  Now his gaze was shuttered.  

            "I'm gonna go settle up with Clem's boys, idiots that they are," Spike went on.  "Then give your Watcher a call, fill him in on the excitement."  He paused.  "'Less you want to do the honors."

            "No, no…I – I think I'd like to wait a bit before talking to him."  _Or anyone.  I'm sure I'll be fine in a week or two; possibly fifty years._

            Spike shrugged and reached for his coat.  The branches of the ficus he'd tossed it on last night sprang up comically.  He rooted in the pockets, finally coming up with a crumpled wad of bills.  

            "There you go."  He pressed the money into her hand, looking as though he half-expected her to rip the paper in two.  Okay, she'd only done that once.  

            "Take Dawn up to the restaurant, get yourself something to eat.  I'll be back in a couple of hours."

            "Okay."  She suspected he was giving her and Dawn time to reconnect; part of her appreciated it and part of her wanted to throw him down on the loveseat and tie him there.  Whoa, sex with Spike had changed her.  _No!_ she told BadBrain sternly.  She wasn't interested in getting her kink on with Dawn in the next room, she just…wanted to make sure he'd stick around.  Not fall victim to the patented Buffy Summers drive-the-men-in-your-life-away-with-a-cattle-prod formula.  

_A day late and a dollar short_, her father had been fond of saying.  Was that the case with her?  Was she too late in getting hit upside the head with the knowledge of Spike's…not-evilness? 

Something between an apology and a thank you was stuck in her throat, but the words just wouldn't come.  So she simply watched as he plucked the valet ticket from on top of the television, and walked out the door.

***************************************

            Tara wouldn't have wanted this, thought Xander.

            The Maclays had claimed her body from the Sunnydale morgue, and taken it back to her hometown.  Despite her father's obvious disdain at her friends, they'd not been barred from the funeral.  So now Xander stood flanked by Anya and Willow.  He hadn't been this close to his ex-fiancee since their abortive attempt at marriage – she'd skirted around him that first day at the hospital, and hadn't returned since.  He mentally chastised himself for thinking about Anya's unique scent, a hint of perfume overpowered by the John the Conqueror incense she kept – _used to_ keep, he corrected himself – next to the register at the Magic Box.  _'It's supposed to bring good fortune,' _she'd informed Xander the first time he smelled it on her.  He'd shaken his head and made some stupid – stupid! – crack about there being only one kind of fortune Anya was interested in.  And then he'd divested her of her clothes, so that only he and John the Conqueror and naked Anya were left.

            Jesus, what a fucking pervert he was.  Zoning about sex while Tara was being lowered into the ground ten feet away.  He looked around at the other somber faces, their staid, traditional black mourning clothes such a contrast to Tara's ruffles and rainbow colors.  The minister droned on, but the the platitudes held no meaning for Xander.  Nor did they, he suspected, for Willow.

            She stood next to him, spine ramrod-straight, mouth set in a tight, angry line.  Rage rolled off her in waves, and not for the first time, Xander worried about her mental state.  Sure, for sheer craziness Buffy had them all beat right now.  But Willow's fury seethed, bided its time.  Hadn't he known her most of his wasted life?  Since she'd gotten back at him for stealing her Barbie fifteen years ago – G.I. Joe wasn't the same after that – Xander had never underestimated her capacity for revenge.  Even against her friends.

            Especially against her friends.

            He didn't look forward to getting caught between a witch and a Slayer.  Willow could marshal powers beyond Xander's comprehension, and Buffy – well, Buffy wasn't pulling any punches these days.  Xander sighed heavily.  The idea dismayed him, but…maybe Spike could help keep things under control.  According to Giles, the evil undead was doing a passable job of caring for Dawn.  For that, Xander would always be in his debt.  Which frankly sucked, but so did just about everything lately.

            As the first clods of dirt hit the coffin, Xander prayed for the first time during the ceremony.  _Please, God.  No more pain.  Not like this.  My heart hurts with it, God…let this end okay.  Let everybody just be okay._

***************************************           

            Two hours on three highways, in the middle of a bloody Saturday afternoon.  Spike wished he could shake off the glare of sunlight the way dogs shook off rainwater.  He dashed out of the DeSoto and into the house.  Front door still unlocked – good sign.

            Slowing now that he was safe from solar retribution, Spike wandered through the rooms he hadn't seen last night.  Oh, plenty of treasures here.  He shoved gleaming trinkets of gold into his pockets, dawdled in the library before scooping up several first editions.  Then he headed upstairs.

            Kehoe was, not surprisingly, still slumped against his toilet.  He stared with unconcealed loathing, and not a little trepidation, as Spike entered the bathroom.  Spike surveyed him, satisfied with his handiwork.

            "How you feeling, mate?"  Kehoe didn't answer, and Spike inspected the chains.  Always helps to have a set of those around, he reflected.

            "So, how long you think you got left in here?" he asked Kehoe.  "I mean, you got water, and the facilities.  How long before hunger starts to make you a bit off?"  Spike smiled.  "Maybe you'll start gnawing on yourself.  About…here."  He touched Kehoe's left wrist, where the man had strained against his bonds.  "Like those animals do, to get out of the teeth of traps.  How long d'you think it'll take you to get through the bone?  Will you make it in time?"

            The older man was becoming visibly unhinged at the picture Spike painted.  Fine, then.  Time for the next move.

            "I'll let you go.  Just have to do one little thing for me."

            Kehoe didn't bother to disguise his suspicion.  "Indeed.  And what would that be?"

            Spike leaned close.  "Buffy mentioned you'd be able to help a bloke out."  He smiled.  "I got a bit of hardware that needs to be removed."

_To Be Continued._


	12. Released

_Title: _Roundabout

_Author: _Serpentine

_Rating: _R

_Disclaimer: _All characters of 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' are used without permission.

_Author's Notes: _This is set post-'Hell's Bells', and while it overlaps some themes of 'Normal Again', for my purposes, that events in that episode haven't occurred.    

_Feedback: _This is my first story posted to fanfiction.net.  I'd appreciate reviews: devilpiglet@yahoo.com.

_Website: _http://www.geocities.com/devilpiglet

***************************************

Buffy climbed out of the steamy embrace of the tub.  She'd scrubbed herself raw for twenty minutes, then soaked until the water turned lukewarm.  Pulling on a hotel bathrobe, she wondered if she'd ever feel clean again.  She breathed deeply and pushed open the sliding door to the bedroom.

"Here.  Put these on."  Dawn tossed her sister a pile of folded clothes.  Buffy caught them without thinking, then looked down.  

"Are these yours?"

Dawn snorted.  "Right.  You went crazy, Buffy.  You didn't get taller.  Know what?  If I were Choosing a Slayer, I'd pick one who could reach the top of the refrigerator without standing on a chair."  Sprawled on the huge bed, she kicked her own long legs proudly.  "How tall do you think I'll be before I stop growing?" Her face darkened.  "Do you know what Spike told me?  He said that maybe I'll never stop growing, that I'll be like the fifty-foot woman or something.  He said that the monks probably forgot to magic that in, 'cause they were expecting me to be all temporary."  She scowled, but her eyes betrayed a flicker of worry.  "He's just being stupid, isn't he?"

"Guys like to say stuff like that," Buffy answered, and heard her own matter-of-fact, soothing tone as if it came from afar.  "He may be undead, but Spike's still a guy."  _Mmm__-hmm!  BadBrain agreed wholeheartedly.  Buffy hugged the clothes to her chest and shook her head.  Dawn eyed her, and Buffy made a show of inspecting the garments.  "You didn't let Spike pick these out, did you?"_

"Nah.  We stopped at a strip mall in Kingman.  Arizona," she added.  "He went to the bookstore while I was at Ross."  

"Oh."  It was rapidly becoming Buffy's response of choice.  She went into the bathroom and quickly changed into the undergarments, blue jeans and peasant blouse.  No new shoes, so she was stuck with the backless heels she'd been wearing…earlier.

"Can we go now?" Dawn called from the bedroom.  Buffy wasn't sure if she should be eating at a revolving restaurant just yet – she wondered if there was some sort of guideline about this sort of thing.  _Do not swim within one hour of eating.  Remain on stationary surface for twenty-four hours after reclamation of body from evil morality-erasing spell.  But Dawn hadn't eaten yet, and Buffy knew from experience that a hungry Dawn was a screechy, irritable Dawn._

When she emerged from the bathroom, she found the younger Summers counting the bills Spike had left with Buffy.  "Look what you found," Buffy said drily.

Dawn grinned but didn't look up.  "If I have to eat any more fast food, I'm going to kill Ronald McDonald, Wendy, and Jack in the Box."  She bit her lip.  "Should we wait for Spike?  He's been gone, like, three hours.  How long does it take to make a phone call, anyway?  And why couldn't he call from here?"

_Because he knew I'd hate hearing all this described to Giles.  "He had to pay Clem's cousins, too," Buffy reminded her.  "They probably went to get something to eat themselves."_

The meal was quiet and uneventful.  Buffy ordered a hamburger, and then worried about her sudden craving for red meat.  Did it have some sort of sinister meaning?  Should she now be afraid of her inner carnivore?  When he brought her diet soda, she asked him for two aspirin.

Dawn seemed fine – too fine, and Buffy worried about that as well.  She appeared to have no lingering issues over the fact that her sister had recently attempted to carve her like a Thanksgiving turkey.  Buffy searched Dawn's gaze for disgust, or fear, or hatred, but there was none.  Had a month on the road with Spike completely reset Dawn's moral compass?  _Well, if she starts knocking over liquor stores I guess I'll know._

Which was a lie.  Buffy knew already; knew that her sister was a good, kind person who – in this case, at least – found forgiveness effortless.  Of course, the next time Buffy grounded her there'd be hair-flipping and door-slamming.  

The waiter returned and Buffy downed the aspirin.

"Look!" Dawn gestured excitedly.  She had acquired a disposable camera at some point during her journey, and was now squinting as she maneuvered it.  "I can see the Hollywood sign."

Hollywood…Hollywood…_Hyperion._

"Dawn," Buffy called, but it came out a croak.

"Hmm?"  Dawn took one last photo, then skipped back to the table.

"I remember – Angel –"  Buffy didn't know how to ask it.

Dawn's smile faded.  "Yeah.  Um, do you remember…?"  

_Angel's expression of shock and horror; Cordelia running, clutching something to her breast; two strangers flanking her as if they could somehow prevent the bloodshed…_

"Are they…" Buffy swallowed.  "How bad was it?"

"They got away," Dawn answered, and Buffy closed her eyes in silent relief.  "You took a bite out of Angel, though."

"Oh, God.  What did I do?"

Dawn frowned.  "You took. A bite.  Out of Angel."

"_Literally?"_

"That's what Giles said.  You told Angel it was payback."

"But everyone else is fine?"

Dawn shifted uncomfortably.  "They booked it out of town real fast, I guess.  They've got, um…a lot of stuff going on there."  

"And everyone in Sunnydale?"

"Last I heard, they were in the hospital.  Giles…I think he's kept in touch, but he hasn't said much."

Buffy was troubled by that.  Should she have spoken to Giles herself?  Was there any chance that the waiter had Valium?

Get over yourself, Buffy, she thought.  You're going to face this – all of this – with your eyes open.  Apparently, she'd been successful in blocking out parts of her rampage so far.  Buffy knew that when they arrived in Sunnydale, it would all come back.  Every swoop of the blade, each scream of a familiar voice.

Their food arrived.  As the plate was slid in front of her, Buffy found she wasn't hungry after all.

When they returned to the room, Spike was there.  Buffy sensed him before she saw him, and then he stepped out of the bedroom.  He'd been cramming clothes and God knew what else into a battered duffel bag.  He'd showered; beads of water clung to his skin and his feet were bare.  Dawn bounced up to him.

"Dawdle much?  Can we still get Krispy Kreme before we leave?  You promised…"

He scratched the back of his head.  "Did you eat lunch?"

"Yes!"

"Good."  He thrust the duffel at her.  "Pack your stuff, monkey.  We'll get Krispy Kreme on the way out."

Dawn trotted off, and Spike and Buffy were left alone.

"You were gone a long time," she said lamely.

"Had to hunt down Josh."

"Josh?"

"Clem's cousin."

"Oh.  Right."

There were so many things she wanted to say to him and she didn't even know where to start_.  Thanks for saving me?  Thanks for protecting my kid sister?  Sorry about the way I beat your face in the last time you tried to help me?  _

She remained silent.  Everything in this hotel room seemed strange and sterile, Spike included.  He might be sharing space with her, but his body was tense and his face deliberately distant.  He was so wary of her, this Spike who once thought nothing of  invading her personal space and her home and her heart.  Now he was miles away.

Was he afraid she'd go off again?  Valid, but she couldn't think of a good way to convince him – or anyone else – that she was really and truly herself again.  

She suspected that wasn't it, anyway.  She kicked his ass plenty over the years, but Spike could take care of himself.  And Dawn, as he'd proven.  No, there was something else.  He was battening down the emotional hatches, and for Spike that was a painful task indeed.  He'd always been so open to her, his devotion laid bare for her to examine and explore and, ultimately, to reject.  No more.  Why?

He was giving up on her.  The conviction rose up in her like a panic, even as Spike's face remained impassive.  Her lips parted, and she was ready to plead with him, for him.

"All done."

Buffy gasped.

The voice was Dawn's; her sister stood in the doorway of the bedroom, foot tapping impatiently.  "Let's _go!  I'm __ready!"_

"Slayer?"

They were waiting.  Buffy smiled weakly.  "Home, sweet home."

***************************************

Could she tell?  She'd looked at him, just now, like…like she'd suddenly seen her bleakest future.  Did she think he'd hurt her now?  Would he?  

She couldn't be sure, anyway.  No way to tell on the outside.  Spike had expected to spend the afternoon in bleeding agony – really bleeding.  But there'd been no scalpel and gauze and squishy sounds of a brain being probed that had turned even his stomach, that last time.  Nope, just a room full of computers and the occasional person, engrossed in their electronic endeavors.  He and Kehoe stood behind a young woman while she typed efficiently, bringing intricate circuitry up on the screen in front of her.  The final clack of the keyboard, a _whoosh in his head and then – _

Release.  

_To Be Continued._


	13. Mercy Street

_Title: _Roundabout

_Author: _Devil Piglet

_Rating: _R

_Disclaimer: _All characters of 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' are used without permission.

_Author's Notes: _This is set post-'Hell's Bells', and while it overlaps some themes of 'Normal Again', for my purposes, that events in that episode haven't occurred.    

_Feedback: _This is my first story posted to fanfiction.net.  I'd appreciate reviews: devilpiglet@yahoo.com.

_Website: _http://www.geocities.com/devilpiglet

***************************************

There was a time, Buffy reflected, when she hadn't been afraid of love.

Angel had been her first, in so many ways.  She'd been young, very young, and inexperienced.  Her teenaged confidence had occasionally flickered but there had been enough desire to make up for it.  She had pursued him.  She knew it was love, and wasn't that all that mattered?  

It took no effort to recall their final hour.  Angel, wordless as always, had turned on his heel and left her standing in the midst of a typical Sunnydale scene: ambulances; exploded building; gross remnants of an evil beast littering the ground and – ew – her hair?  And Angel walking away.

They'd seen each other since, but that had been their goodbye.  Buffy had gone to work on the wall she had started when Hank Summers left.  Parker had been good for plenty of bricks, and Riley…

Riley, who'd seemed so safe and nice and honest; Riley, whom she'd _willed herself to love because if she didn't, she'd be crazy, right?  Riley had earnestly betrayed her because he liked a little less Slayer in his women.  _

After that she thought the wall couldn't get any higher, but then Mom had died.  

The pain of that still stunned her; she didn't have words for it.  The mourning she'd done over her wayward lovers seemed obscene in comparison.  

That's when she had decided.  How many times had she thought to herself, _It__ will never be this bad again.  But never became an increasingly short respite.  She couldn't do it anymore.  Not with Dawn to take care of, and slaying, and the million and one other things that pressed on her from all sides.  _

All those times Spike had proclaimed his love, loud and fierce – _stupid vampire, she had thought scornfully.  She'd done her duty by trying to talk him out of it, and when that didn't work she taken what she'd wanted and spit out the rest.  It worked for everyone else, didn't it?_

Of course, she'd been the fool.  Easy to see now, with Spike and Dawn in the front of the DeSoto, bickering and poking each other in the ribs as L.A. faded behind them.  Easy to feel, with him sitting so close she could see the fine hairs on the back of his neck.

They were near one of the seedier beach areas.  Spike pointed to a barren industrial area beneath the freeway exit.  "You see that?" he was telling Dawn.  "That's where I tortured your sister's ex-boyfriend."  He nodded solemnly, and Dawn smacked him on the arm.  In seconds they were scrabbling for control over the radio dial.  

They'd been this way for the bulk of the drive; two fractious children who'd been cooped up too long.  At any other time Buffy suspected their antics would have annoyed her but now she was content to sit silently in the backseat and watch.  It warmed a place inside her, seeing them now.  Their affection, Buffy realized, was a precious thing.  How had she never noticed that before?

She wondered what Giles had thought of this whole mess.  She was glad Spike had conducted that conversation elsewhere.  It was…too hard, her fall from grace in Giles' absence.  Made her think that he'd been right to leave.

"Buffy?" Dawn twisted around in the bench seat.  "You okay?  You haven't said much."

"Swallow your tongue, Slayer?"  Spike's voice was devoid of emotion.

She grimaced at him out of habit, then addressed Dawn.  "Just tired.  I think it's going to take me while to, you know…recover."

"Sure."  Dawn accepted this explanation.

"'Bout another hour and a half to Sunnydale," Spike said.  Buffy retreated into her corner of the car, and closed her eyes.

***************************************

The Magic Box was a sooty, smoke-blackened mess, but it was home.  To Anya, at any rate.  

After the fire she'd all but moved in.  She ate here, did her bookkeeping on the charred round table, even stole naps in the training room.  It was important to her, to be near this place.  Especially now, when it was broken and in need of fixing.  She didn't want to abandon it.

She knew how silly that was; knew that was nothing but a collection of bricks and plywood and odd, clever merchandise.  But it was hers.  Giles had gone, left her in charge, and she was determined to rebuild.  This had been the first place she'd really fit in, the first place she'd felt safe and strong after months of struggling to find her place with Xander's friends.  There hadn't been a place for her, she thought now.  She'd never really belonged, anywhere except here.  

The front of the shop was almost presentable.  Anya wanted to reopen as soon as possible.  She stood now on a stepladder, straining to reach the purification oil she'd rather inconveniently banished to the top of the bookcases.  _You'd think, she told herself crossly, __that after everything I would position this in a more universally accessible location.  Honestly --_

A creak from the back of the shop made her freeze.  Muted shuffling sounds reached her ears, and she realized how absurdly vulnerable she was, perched on the ladder, arms outstretched like a figurine in a music box.

It was quiet now.  Slowly Anya scanned the shelves that were more easily within her reach.  Much as she enjoyed the anti-shoplifting spell she'd discovered in _Colletti's__ Compendium, she doubted the book would serve as a useful weapon.  _

The creaking began again.  Her panicked gaze fell on a marble mortar and pestle being used as a bookend.  Grabbing the mortar, she crept down from the stepladder.  She edged toward the back entrance.

Heavy, determined footsteps.  Anya clutched the mortar and viciously cursed the ease with which a mortal girl could be reduced to fear and trembling, only because of physical weakness.  Anya knew they couldn't all be Slayers, but –

_Oh, no.  What if it was Buffy, back to finish the job?  Anya looked down at the marble in her hand with sudden pessimism.  __This certainly wouldn't do the trick.  Where was Olaf's troll hammer when she needed it?_

The door to the training room swung wide.  Anya raised the mortar and leaped.

"Good God, Anya!"

Giles grabbed her wrist, stopping the mortar a fraction of inch before it connected with his skull.  He carefully lowered her arm while Anya stared, openmouthed.

"Anya. I didn't mean to startle you.  I had no idea you'd be here – why are you here?  It's after dark?"

She felt foolish and pleased all at once, and it was a discomfiting sensation.  She decided to glare at him sternly.  It always worked with Xander.  "Giles, what are you doing here?"

His mouth quirked.  "Anya, it is my store."

"Technically," she began, a bit huffily, "the store belongs to Southland Property Management.  Of course, if you'd taken my advice and entered into a lease-to-buy arrangement –"

"I did."

"What?"

"The landlord is eager to divest himself of his Sunnydale holdings.  We've come to an agreement."

"Oh," she said.  She didn't know he'd been listening to her, when she told him about the benefits of equity and ownership.  

He cocked his head at her, and then his features seemed to soften.  "Hello," he said, and opened his arms.  And Anya flung herself into them, tears suddenly pricking at her eyes.  

She felt his large, warm hand smoothing back the hair on top of her head.  Uncharacteristically abashed, she pulled back and attempted casualness.  

"Why aren't you in England?"

He studied her for another moment, then sighed.  "I hoped I could be of some help here, given the recent developments.  Buffy is, obviously, in need of assistance.  I'm not sure if I'm the one to provide it for her, however."

He seemed so weary.  Anya took his hand and led him to the table.  "Sit," she said.  You left some tea here.  I'm going to make it."

Giles chuckled half-heartedly.  "Earl Grey would survive a disaster."

"Actually," Anya said from where she knelt behind the counter, "it's orange pekoe.  I drank all the Earl Grey."

"Did you?  I never noticed you liked it," he answered absently.

_I don't.  It reminded me of you. __And it made me feel safe.  Anya came closer to saying that than she liked.  She returned to the table.  _

"So," she said, gesturing around.  "This is what your investment looks like."  The brightness she tried for sounded brittle to her own ears.

"I heard," he replied.  "It's just a building.  It doesn't matter."

She was stung, and she couldn't figure out why.  "I'm fixing it up," she told him.  "Another month and we can have a grand reopening, with gaudy decorations and discounts on selected items."

He smiled.  "I'd love to see that."

"Aren't you glad I made you get insurance?"

"It was an excellent suggestion.  It will stand us in good stead, I believe."  He cleared his throat.  "You weren't here when Buffy…visited."

She shook her head.  "I had been coming in during the late evenings.  You got my letter?  About how I was closing the shop for – inventory?"

"Yes."  He paused.  "I'm sorry I didn't say this earlier – it didn't seem right over the phone or on paper.  I'm so terribly sorry about what happened with Xander."

She smiled a little.  "Me too.  It's over, though.  That's the great thing about living on the Hellmouth!  There's always something worse about to happen."

"Er – yes.  Anya…"

"Yes?"

"Buffy is coming home.  She's herself again, thanks to Spike and Dawn and a bit of research on my part."

"That's excellent.  In my experience, when one has been previously possessed by an evil being it's really best to jump right back into things."

"Really?  I'm concerned, frankly.  About her constitution, and her mental state.  Also, she doesn't know about Tara."

"Oh."  Tara's funeral was another time during which she'd felt Giles' absence keenly.  And Buffy's, and Dawn's, and even Spike's.  It seemed they should have all been together then, even if one of them had brought them to that point.  Funerals were very upsetting to Anya, and she felt that she'd endured more than was her fair share in her brief humanity.

"Well, she was obviously crazy," Anya said in what she hoped was a soothing tone.  "I mean, totally off the deep end.  She's not to blame for what happened."

Giles looked around again at the shop, then back at Anya. "That's very understanding of you."

Anya was nonplussed.  At a loss, she looked down at the table.  "Willow won't be as forgiving," she told him.

He gazed at her bowed head. "I know."

***************************************

"End of the line," Spike said.  He shut off the engine and, for the first time since they'd left Los Angeles, turned around to face Buffy.  "Welcome home."

"Thanks," she said.  "For the ride."

"Right."  He got out of the car and opened the trunk, removing the few small bags he and Dawn had accumulated during their flight.  

Yawning, Dawn shambled out of the car and up the front walk.  After a moment, Buffy followed with Spike behind her.

He deposited the bags at the front door.  "They aren't heavy.  Leave 'em here if you want."  Clearly, he had no desire to go inside.

"Is my Enrique Iglesias CD in there?" Dawn asked.  Spike rolled his eyes.  

"No.  I kept it.  I just love him so much. Tonight I'm going to go home and play it, because hearing it fifty thousand times just isn't enough."

Dawn sniffed.  Then she went to Spike and hugged him like it was the most natural thing in the world.  And Spike – his arms went around her without thought, until he met Buffy's eyes over Dawn's nestled head.  Then he gently pushed her off.  "Up you go, now.  Into bed with you."

"'Kay.  'Night."  Buffy had been expecting a more substantial goodbye, and then she realized that for Dawn, this wasn't goodbye.  Spike was part of her life now, and she would see him again soon.

Dawn dug into her backpack and finally found the housekey.  As she unlocked the door, Buffy turned to Spike.

"Harris came by and locked up.  You two left in a hurry."

_Struggling with Dawn in her bedroom, tearing out of the house after her weeping sister…_

Buffy wrenched herself back to the present.  "If you're tired – I mean, if you're not sure you can make it to your crypt –"

"I'll be fine." His voice was clipped but polite.  God, what had she done to send him so far away from her?  

"Well, then," she said.  "Goodnight."

"Sleep well."

And then he was off, down the path and back into the car.  Buffy stood at the door and watched him leave, stood there until the DeSoto turned the corner.  Then she went inside.

Half an hour later the Summers girls had washed up and shimmied into sleepwear.  Now Buffy lay in bed, lights off and eyes open.  

God, the look on his face tonight – all the usual passion and fury and wildness banked.  He came alive with Dawn but there was nothing in that icy gaze for Buffy.  And hadn't she wanted that for so long?  For him to finally _get over his obsession?  Yet now she was the one whose mind was filled with unwelcome images – the way his shoulders worked under the weight of the bags, making him seem so fundamentally male; the hidden smile that emerged under Dawn's teasing and questions –_

The way he'd held on to her so frantically in the club, love-words pouring out of him even as she'd fought against herself.

A tap on the door, and then a glossy head poking around the door.  "Can you sleep?"

"No," Buffy said, and scooted over in bed.  Dawn sat down.

"It's weird being in my room alone.  I'm used to Spike in the next bed."

And Buffy saw, as clearly as if she had been there: Dawn's long form sprawled across a lumpy twin bed, and Spike watching over her.  Sleep would be elusive to him, and he didn't feel good about closing his eyes anyway.  Not when they were running.  So he'd lean against the headboard, legs crossed at the ankles, eyes occasionally drifting to the white light of the television.  

"I made a mistake," Buffy heard herself say.  The words were choked.

Dawn didn't ask _You__ mean when you tried to kill me or when you burned down our hangout or when you attacked your friends?  Instead, she smoothed the hair back from Buffy's forehead.  "Sleep now," she said softly.  "It will be better in the morning."  She nudged Buffy over and then lay down beside her, and Buffy's eyes closed again._

Oh, she'd been the fool, all right.

There'd been love, the night in the broken house and the times after.  It had caught in her throat, and she'd buried it in slightly-too-hard bites along his hipbones.  She'd been the fool to think she could screw him senseless, crumple in his arms after, gasp out her desires in language that had never seen the light of day – all without loving him.  She'd hated him too, hated him with a growing rage because at night alone in her room the love intruded and it was so much harder to deny then.  Because he made her out a liar.  

There'd been love.  

_Come back, she wanted to say.  __It's just now making sense and I need to know that I'm not too late._

She listened to Dawn's deep, rhythmic breathing and wondered what tomorrow would bring.

_To Be Continued._

_Author's Note: To all of you waiting for Buffy/Spike rapprochement, and to see __Willow__ go apeshit and blow up the moon – it's coming, I promise._


	14. Daughters of the Chaos

_Title: _Roundabout

_Author: _Serpentine

_Rating: _R

_Disclaimer: _All characters of 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' are used without permission.

_Author's Notes: _This is set post-'Hell's Bells', and while it overlaps some themes of 'Normal Again', for my purposes, that events in that episode haven't occurred.    

_Feedback: _This is my first story posted to fanfiction.net.  I'd appreciate reviews: devilpiglet@yahoo.com.

_Website: _http://www.geocities.com/devilpiglet

***************************************

At eight a.m. on any other morning, the ringing of the doorbell would have woken her up.  Today it merely jerked her out of a chilling reverie.  Glad for the distraction, she slowly rose from her seat at the bedroom window.

Dawn, normally a heavy sleeper, was already rubbing her eyes and swinging her legs out of Buffy's bed.  She smiled blearily at her sister and walked to the door.

Don't!" Buffy said sharply.  Dawn stopped, looked at her quizzically.

"It's…don't answer if you don't know who it is," Buffy finished lamely.  "I'll get it."

"But, Buffy – are you sure you're feeling –"

Her sister was already out of the bedroom.

Downstairs, the sun dappled her mother's furniture and warmed the floorboards under her bare feet.  Buffy found her heartbeat accelerating as the doorbell chimed again.

And then she was motionless, staring out the peephole in disbelief.

"Buffy?" came the muffled voice.  "Are you there?"

She threw the door open.

"Giles."

He stood, smiling down at her, eyes full of affection and acceptance.  Something clenched tight inside her relaxed, and she crushed his rumpled form in her embrace.  The smells of aftershave and travel wafted up to her.  She was suddenly gasping and sobbing against his chest, words pouring out of her, and though a part of her suspected she wasn't making much sense Giles seemed to understand.

A noise from the staircase made her pull away and smooth down Giles' shirt, now damp from her tears and wrinkled where her fingers had grabbed on desperately.

"Good morning, Dawn," he said.  Her sister bounded down and wrapped Giles in another hug, her long arms circling him easily.

Somehow the three of them managed to move to the couch; Giles buffeted by a Summers on either side.  His hand rested on Dawn's knee as he handed Buffy a handkerchief.  She unceremoniously blew her nose, but he only pulled her closer.

"Spike told you?" Dawn asked.  She didn't need to add specifics.

Giles nodded.  "I left London immediately after speaking to him yesterday.  He informed me of the most recent happenings."  He slanted a look at Dawn.  "What you did was very brave, and very foolish."

"I know," Dawn replied proudly.  Giles sighed.

"Is our resident vampire around?  I believe what I have to say will be easier with –"

"He went back to his crypt," Buffy said.

"Oh."  Giles' eyebrows crept up in surprise.  "I had thought – well, no matter I suppose.  I –" he hesitated.  Buffy and Dawn gazed up at him expectantly.

"I'm afraid I have some sad news.  Terrible news."

"Dawn, go upstairs," Buffy ordered automatically.  Dawn jumped up.

"No!  Buffy, don't make me!  I've been around for everything, you can't start treating me like a baby again –"

"It may be better if she remains, Buffy," Giles interjected quietly.  "It would…save me from another conversation I'm not keen to have."

She looked from her sister's indignant face to Giles' drawn and lined one.  "All right," she relented.

Giles removed his glasses.  Instead of cleaning them he laid them across his thigh and rubbed his face tiredly.

"You – remember what occurred that night?  At the Magic Box?"

Buffy nodded silently.  Blood, fire, fear, blood, screaming, blood…

"You'll be relieved to know that Xander and Willow have fully recovered.  They – Xander will be very happy to learn that you're…back."

"What about Tara?" Dawn asked.  Her question was full of such curiosity and eagerness that it was clear she had not truly contemplated all the possible answers to that question

The ensuing silence, though, provided time enough for that.

"Giles?"  Buffy's voice was desperate, pleading.

"Tara – I'm afraid that Tara did not survive.  She never left the hospital."

He thought he'd steeled himself against their reactions.

For a long moment, Buffy could do nothing but sit numbly while the news washed over her, infected her, curdled the blood in her veins.  Dimly she heard the start of Dawn's now-familiar tears, and felt the sofa shift as Giles moved to comfort her.  Outside Sunnydale came to life; cars and children and neighbors calling to each other as they walked dogs and pushed strollers.

But the only thing that penetrated her, made it through her chilled skin and slack muscles was the thought –

_Nothing will ever be the same again.  Nothing, nothing, nothing will be the same._

Dawn's howls rose and rent the air, and Giles' hands reached for Buffy as she slid bonelessly off the cushion and onto the floor.  She knelt there while Giles tugged at her shoulders, and she wondered if she could ever get deep enough into the ground so that she and Tara could switch places.  


	15. Dark Impressions

_Title: _Roundabout

_Author: _Serpentine

_Rating: _R

_Disclaimer: _All characters of 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' are used without permission.

_Author's Notes: _This is set post-'Hell's Bells', and while it overlaps some themes of 'Normal Again', for my purposes, that events in that episode haven't occurred.    

_Feedback: _This is my first story posted to fanfiction.net.  I'd appreciate reviews: devilpiglet@yahoo.com.

_Website: _http://www.geocities.com/devilpiglet

***************************************

The house was quiet now.  Giles stood in the kitchen, straining to hear any sounds from upstairs.  But Buffy and Dawn were, for the moment, silent.  Sleeping, he hoped. He knew already that Willow, the home's last remaining lodger, would not be returning to disturb them.  

He sighed and turned his attention to the dusty, cluttered countertop.  There were few sights more melancholy, he thought, than a neglected kitchen.  Granted, even when the girls were in residence the room had been a trifle underused.  But now it showed the unmistakable signs of hasty abandonment: foul water that had yet to drain from the sink; spoiling food in the refrigerator; a wooden knife rack that seemed to have been abruptly upended…

"There's nothing to eat," Buffy said dully.  Giles very nearly jumped.

"Buffy.  I thought perhaps you were resting."

"Dawn is.  I sat with her for a while.  I can't…I can't."

"Of course."  He led her to a chair and she sat obediently.  He took a seat beside her.  "Buffy, despite this tragedy – it's so good to see you.  Safe, and well.  I was…" Now he looked away, out the spotted window.  "I was terribly worried.  Terribly, terribly worried.  But you're here now."  

"And Tara's gone."

"Yes."  He took her hand, small and cold in his.  "Buffy, you must know that you're not to blame for her death.  This man, Kehoe, who instigated all this – responsibility for Tara lies solely at his feet."

She gave a short, pained laugh.  "Really?  Because I seem to remember stabbing her and setting a fire where she fell."

Giles' other hand moved to cover hers.  "Buffy, it was not you –"

"It _was me!" The words burst out of her, choked and desperate.  Giles stiffened._

"It wasn't – it wasn't like some demon or – or something was walking around in my body.  It was me, and I saw everything and there was nothing I could do to stop it!  _It was me."_

"I've researched the magic Kehoe used against you, Buffy.  You weren't possessed, true, but you were most certainly not in control of your actions.  The ritual –"

"I don't care about the ritual!  I don't care how he did it, or why.  Don't you _get it?  Whatever he did, he found something in me that was already there.  That – that thing I've been for the last month – she liked the same food I like, Giles, and she slept on her stomach like I do, and she was pissed at her friends and tired of working minimum wage just like I am!"_

"Buffy!  I understand your concerns, and I believe that I can allay them if you'll just listen to me.  Calm down and listen to me, Buffy."

"Giles…"  She refused to hear any more.  Blindly, she stood and walked jerkily to the back door.  "I have to tell the police.  They have to know it was me, Giles, they have to _punish_ me –"

He was immediately next to her, and his arm was like steel where it gripped her elbow and stayed her.  His voice grated harshly against her ears.  "You will do no such thing."

"God!  You and Spike -- why can't either of you ever understand?  I have to do this!"

"There is nothing to tell them.  Tara has been put to rest and the case has been closed."

She shook her head.  "No.  The Magic Box – even the Sunnydale police could figure out that what happened there was no accident."

"Mr. Maclay informed the authorities that he had no interest in pursuing…resolution.  He stated quite clearly that Tara associated with degenerate and dangerous individuals, and that this ending was nothing less than he expected."

Buffy gasped in horror and disgust, but Giles remained stony.

"Xander and Willow already claimed that they have no memory of the events that night.  Anya, after conferring with me, determined that insurance will cover the damage to the shop.  The police have no reason to move forward, Buffy, and no motivation to do so."

"No.  No.  I refuse to accept that.  If not the police, then the Council –"

"The Council of Watchers must know nothing of this.  Buffy?  Do you understand me?"  His grip on her arm tightened.  Every so often in their relationship he had startled her like this, matched her in a show of strength comparable to her own.  

"Why?"

"They have been looking for an opportunity to retire you.  Do you know what I mean when I say that?  Do you know how they 'retire' Slayers?"

"Yes," she answered numbly.

"Right now, even our good friend Faith is more of a known variable than you are, Buffy.  They'd prefer to have her take up the Slayer line.  Rather, they'd prefer that you both are extinguished and a new Slayer is called."  He gave her a little shake.  "I will not let that happen.  I will not lose you again – not to some fool with a spellbook and not to your own misplaced sense of guilt!"

She stumbled away from him, the countertop for support but finally sliding down, until her body curled against the cabinets.  Giles knelt beside her.

"It's never going to be the same, is it?" she whispered, almost to herself.  "It's touched me this time.  There's this…stain, on my soul.  Mine.  It wasn't Glory, or Adam, or the Master or even one of my vampire boyfriends."  She didn't notice Giles flinch slightly at that.  "I'll never be able to start a sentence with _'I could never…' because I __could._

"My hands aren't clean any more, Giles."

And he couldn't argue with her, because it was true.  Her hands had wrought the death of one friend, and shattered the rest.  There would be mornings when she awoke and the knowledge would slam into her like a fist to her solar plexus, yet she would still have to get up, go on.  

He felt his hatred for Rodger Kehoe spiral and surge.  It was Kehoe who had left her tainted and smothered; who had unwittingly found a pain different from the death of a parent and the loss of eternity.  For the first time Giles cursed Spike's chip, that it prevented him from the natural recourse of bloody and violent revenge on this human.

"Buffy…it will get better.  That I promise.  Let yourself be comforted, by –" he swallowed, Spike's face flashing through his mind again.  "Let yourself be comforted.  Don't deny yourself, or others – Xander, Dawn, Will-Willow…they all need to share this with you."

She nodded, closing her eyes and trying to calm her ragged breathing.  They stayed there for a long time, their bodies made leaden by mourning.  Giles thought, _maybe this is why Slayers die so young.  It's not that final wound, but the ones that have come before._

The day dragged on in silence that was only occasionally punctuated by the sound of low voices and stifled weeping.  At six Buffy succumbed to exhaustion and joined her sister upstairs.  Giles called Xander, who arrived fifteen minutes later.  He then excused himself briefly, leaving the younger man standing alone in the middle of the living room.

***************************************

Spike slept like the dead.

Ha, ha, he thought groggily upon waking.  But it was true, and damn if it didn't feel good.  He'd wondered, as he'd collapsed in his ruined bed, whether sleeping alone for the first time in weeks would be difficult.  He'd become oddly accustomed to Dawn's warm, noisy human presence.

His body answered that question with a resounding _Hell, no.  The crypt was blessedly quiet; no uneven snoring three feet away and no skinny fingers poking various tender places on his carcass as a declaration that it was time to get up and buy her a Mega Meal at the diner across the road._

Okay, so maybe he missed her.  Slightly.  And that last night – with Buffy at his side as well!  That had been his Elysium; the only one he'd ever see at any rate.

His crypt seemed desolate in comparison, although to be fair it had never had much of a welcoming atmosphere.  Now, though – now he felt like he was not only returning to his digs but to his old life: solitary, rejected, reviled.

_And that's why you'll never be a poet, William.  He heaved himself off the bed and surveyed the place.  Thanks to the Great Potato's bombing action, his home now __was as dank as depressing as Harris' basement.  Still, the blackened walls and inside-out furnishings lent a sense of chaos that Spike could appreciate.  He studied a hollowed-out lampshade thoughtfully._

Too bad he couldn't redecorate before company came, he thought.  Human, and he felt an automatic stab of anxiety before he remembered – no worries.  He could defend himself, now.  Maybe do a bit more than that.  He smiled.  Yeah, maybe do.

"Spike?"  His grin faded.  Where was a genuine pillock when you needed one?

"Down here," he called back, and grimaced at his complaisance.  He should start offering crumpets, next.

Giles stepped carefully down the ladder.  "Good evening," he said, and Spike raised an eyebrow.

"Er, right," Giles muttered.  "Your hovel has become more…hovel-like since I saw it last, hasn't it?"

Spike shrugged.  "So much for my spread in _Town and Country."  He gave Giles a pointed once-over.  "That a stake in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"_

"What?  Oh – oh."  Giles removed it, placing it on the remains of Spike's beloved television.  "Anya left it for me.  She suspected I might forget to use precautions."

Spike snickered.  "It's a twig, Rupert, not a condom."  But the humor died quickly.  "You seen Buffy?"

"Yes.  I've spent the day there.  They weren't expecting me, I don't think."

"Wasn't for me to tell.  'Sides, didn't want her getting all nervous and shamefaced about seeing you."  He frowned.  "You left her there alone?"

"No.  Xander's there now.  He wanted very much to see her.  They – they need each other right now."

"Yep.  The Scooby Gang, back together again."  

Giles sighed heavily.  "Not exactly."  He seemed to want to say more, but the weariness etched across his face stayed the words.  The two men looked at each other for a long moment, before Giles spoke again.  "I don't suppose there's anything to drink underneath all this rubble?"

"'Fraid I don't have any tea, Watcher."

"Good."

Spike gave him one last look, then motioned him to the only-slightly-worse-for-wear armchair.  Giles sat, smiling joylessly at the tufts of cotton erupting from the cushion.  Spike thrust a glass at him, then hopped up on a nearby sarcophagus.  "Here."

Giles took a long, smooth swallow, while Spike swigged straight from the bottle, eyeing him over the rim.

"Tara's dead.  Buffy killed her.  The other – oh, bloody hell.  You know what I mean."

Spike let the whiskey burn a path along his throat, down into his belly, and with it this news.  "When?"

"The evening Buffy was spotted at the airport.  Services have been conducted, although I'm sure Buffy will want to visit her plot.  The memorial park is about ninety miles away.  High desert country.  And…I'm rambling, aren't I?"

Spike leaned over to refill his tumbler.  "Police?"

"They won't be involved.  Small mercies, I suppose."

Spike closed his eyes and let Tara fill his mind.  Soft, shy, luminous.  Blood began to seep around the edges of the image, rendering it rosy and liquid.

"How's Buffy taking it?"

"As can be expected.  She was intent on turning herself in, until I talked her out of it."  

"Bully for you.  That's more than I was able to do."

Giles' gaze sharpened.  "What are you talking about?"

"Nothin'."  Spike gestured with the bottle.  "The kid?"

"Distraught, of course.  Tara was a very strong presence in Dawn's life.  She and Buffy both will need all the support we can provide."

"We?  Since when am I part of your merry band?"  He was aware of his own churlishness; heard it in his monosyllabic replies.  Somehow, he just couldn't work up the usual snark.  

"You've protected Dawn for weeks.  Buffy would not have been restored without your help.  And I know that you have some sort of relationship with her."  

Well, no one ever said Rupert Giles was an idiot.  Spike's lips quirked.  "Not any more, so you can rest easy."  He flicked a bit of lint off his jeans.  "So what do you want me to do?  Sit with the little one while you all try and conjure Tara back from the ether?"

"You know I had nothing to do with that."  Giles' voice was hard.  "And there's no risk of such absurdity being repeated – if for no other reason than that Willow has disappeared."

Spike raised both eyebrows now.  "That right?  I don't find that thought too cheering."

"Nor do I.  Willow has already demonstrated a troubling disregard for the consequences of magic.  That, combined with her lover's death…"  Giles trailed off.  

"We might be looking at a bit more calamity," Spike finished.  

"It's a possibility, yes."

Spike chuckled lowly.  "Here's to the Hellmouth."

The men raised their drinks, and then silence reigned again.

_To Be Continued. _

_Author's Note: I know these last two chapters were heavy.  It will get better, but __Tara__ earned her mourning._


	16. Detritus

_Title: _Roundabout

_Author: _Serpentine

_Rating: _R

_Disclaimer: _All characters of 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' are used without permission.

_Author's Notes: _This is set post-'Hell's Bells', and while it overlaps some themes of 'Normal Again', for my purposes, that events in that episode haven't occurred.  

Thanks to Annie Sewell-Jennings, who took time out from writing her own amazing fic in order to beta mine.  Annie, be my shorty forever.  

_Feedback: _This is my first story posted to fanfiction.net.  I'd appreciate reviews: devilpiglet@yahoo.com.

_Website: _http://www.geocities.com/devilpiglet

***************************************

The house smelled like death.

Not actual corpses, which Xander knew from experience.  Rather the cloyingly sweet scent of too many flowers; the ripe aroma of unfamiliar casseroles brought by neighbors who normally avoided the Summers house.  But this had been Tara's home, more than the dormitory or the place where she grew up.  And so this was where death settled.

He supposed it was fitting that Spike sat in the chair across from him.

Over the past few weeks Xander had comforted himself with the thought that if anyone could protect Dawn, and maybe even Buffy, it was this loathsome freak.  Sure, he couldn't hurt humans but Xander suspected that humans weren't their biggest worry.  So at night, in between thoughts of Anya and worry over Willow and apprehension about Buffy, Xander had told himself that if anyone could handle this, Spike could.  And he had: Buffy and Dawn were home and safe.  Spike had come through; Spike had done the right thing.

And as soon as Xander laid eyes on him, lounging on the couch where Joyce had breathed her last, he'd wanted to pummel Spike so badly he could taste it.  He wanted to hear his bones crunch, see his firm white flesh split open.  He hated Spike, hated him for continuing to exist while Tara was in the ground.  It should have been him.  It wasn't fair.  

_Welcome back, you bastard._

***************************************

Buffy hesitated, hovered just outside her sister's door.  It seemed so wrong that she should help anyone through this mourning.  It seemed like she was killing Tara all over again.  

Dawn was playing music, songs Buffy didn't recognize.  But the melody touched something weepy and wretched inside her.  She closed her eyes for a moment, then pushed the door open.

Dawn looked up from where she lay on the bed.  "Hey."

"Hey."  Buffy leaned against the doorframe, watching her sister warily.  "How are you doing?"

"Okay." Dawn nodded to a hand-labeled CD case on her bedstand.  "Xander and I talked.  I missed him."

"He's a great friend."  

Xander hadn't knocked when he came over last night; he had just walked in and when Buffy turned around in the kitchen and saw him standing there with a sad, wry smile on his face she burst into tears.  His eyes filled too, spilled over, but he'd wrapped her in his strong warm arms while she babbled out apologies.  They'd sat for the longest time, then, at the kitchen table.  He didn't press her about her time away, didn't demand to know how Spike fit into all of this.  He'd just held her hand, and stroked her hair.  And even though there was bitterness in his gaze she'd eventually accepted that it was not directed at her.  Like Giles, like Dawn, he'd forgiven Buffy before she could ask.  

"He brought me some music," Dawn went on.  "I don't really know it, but it's incredibly sad and it makes me cry, and feel better.  If that makes any sense."

"It does," Buffy said.  "I'll let you borrow one of my Sarah McLachlan CDs if you want."

"Um, thanks but no thanks.  I want to be self-indulgent, not suicidal."  She covered her mouth as soon as she'd spoken the words.  "Dumb joke.  Shouldn't joke about – stuff like that."

"I think Tara would have smiled at that.  She's probably smiling now."

"Is she –" Dawn struggled for the right words.  "What happened to her – it was awful.  I guess I just want to know…where she is now – is it worth it?  Is it worth what went before?"

Buffy shut her eyes briefly.  Oh, how she dreaded thinking of That Place.  Because it was so exquisite, so peaceful and protected.  It made This Place so much rawer in comparison.

"I hate that I was the one who hurt her," Buffy murmured finally.  "I hate that her last thoughts must have been of pain and betrayal and fear.  I even hate that she would have forgiven me.  Easily."  Her eyes pricked and she wiped a small hand across them almost angrily.

"But…yes.  I don't know how to explain this – there aren't words in our language.  It's worth it, Dawn.  It's worth anything.  And the idea that we're capable of earning it?  Incredible.  Mind-boggling.  I mean, duh.  None of us can _really deserve it, and yet it's there for us anyway.  I know not everyone will get to see…" Buffy swallowed, "heaven, but we all get the chance.  If people knew, they'd be tripping over each other to do the right thing."_

Dawn appeared to digest this.  "Where do you think Willow is?" she asked after a minute.

_Probably avoiding me, 'cause of how I murdered the love of her life and all.  _

"Probably…just getting through this.  In her own way.  She and Tara had something incredible, something special."  _And they appreciated it; they didn't resent it or ridicule it or fear it.  They didn't leave it lying on cold pavement or abandon it with a few words of self-righteous psychobabble._

"How will she ever be able to love anybody else again?  She had the real thing, Buffy.  I mean, I haven't had it," she added hastily when Buffy's eyes suddenly sharpened.  "But I could tell.  Now it'll be in her head, forever.  That she had that and lost it.  And won't that just make her heart keep breaking?"

***************************************

"You enjoying this?"

Spike stared at him.  "What's that supposed to mean?"

"This."  Xander gestured around him.  "Your leavings."

Now Spike glared.  "What are you on about now, Harris?  None of this was my doing."

Xander laughed.  "You don't think so?  God, you stupid vampire.  Don't you even get it?

"This is what it looks like, after you – you and Angel – got through with a place.  Never mind the blood; this is just the grief.  What's left over once you've torn apart families.  Friends.  Take a good long look, Spike.  It might not have been your hands and your fangs this time, but believe me – this is nothing worse than what you've done."

"I liked Tara," Spike said, but the words sounded weak and hollow to his own ears.

Xander grinned nastily.

"You know," he replied, "I think you did.  I think, given the chance, you'd spare her life.  Maybe even help her out if she needed it.  And you know what?  That doesn't mean shit to me. So you managed to have an iota of compassion for somebody you've known for two years?  Well, strike up the band.  Let's have a parade down Wilkins Drive in your honor.

"What about all the anonymous men and women that crossed your path, Spike?  What about them?  They made a difference, somewhere, and we'll never know how. They were loved, by people we've never even met.  Every time you took one of those lives, you broke someone's heart.  Did you ever even think about that?"

Spike remembered the night he'd thought the chip had crapped out.  How he'd strutted and snarled, until he'd found that sweet, scared morsel on the street.  That pretty little girl who'd pleaded even as she scrambled back from him.  _"This might hurt a little," he'd told her.  She had been someone's Tara.  _

She had been someone's Buffy.

For the first time he looked at that encounter not as a humiliating failure, but as…something else.  Something that was too terrifying to contemplate _(blessing) so he shut his eyes tight, wanting only to erase all this death and human frailty from his mind._

Xander's pain-hardened voice cut through his recalcitrance.  "Did they call out, those people?  Those families you ripped apart?  Did children cry for their mothers?  Did brothers try to protect sisters?  Did old couples cling to each other even as they died?"

Spike opened his mouth to let fly a vicious retort, something that would shut the boy up good and proper, something that would cause him to slink away in ignominy.  

But he had nothing to say.

Xander raised his head.  The strains of an old, despondent tune could be heard above them.

"Come on, Spike.  Don't tell me the thrill is gone."

_To Be Continued._


	17. Survivor

_Title: _Roundabout

_Author: _Serpentine

_Rating: _R

_Disclaimer: _All characters of 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' are used without permission.

_Author's Notes: _This is set post-'Hell's Bells', and while it overlaps some themes of 'Normal Again', for my purposes, that events in that episode haven't occurred.    

_Feedback: _This is my first story posted to fanfiction.net.  I'd appreciate reviews: devilpiglet@yahoo.com.

_Website: _http://www.geocities.com/devilpiglet

***************************************

Weeks passed.  

Things got better.  

It surprised Buffy, really.  She resisted the pull of healing, feeling herself ineligible.  But each morning the agony receded the smallest bit, making it easier to get out of bed.  And when she did arise she went to the Magic Box, where Giles was a quiet but steadying presence, and employed her at renovation while Anya dispensed remarkably helpful advice.

The two girls sat now at the smoke-blackened table, Anya with a catalogue in front of her and Buffy wiping down jewelry with the precision and mindlessness of an automaton.

Anya slammed the catalogue shut, and Buffy looked up to find the other woman staring at her fixedly.  

"What?" Buffy asked cautiously.

"You're brooding.  Right now.  I can tell.  Brood, brood, brood."

"I'm not!  I'm just reflecting on things.  There's a difference."

"Is there?  Either way you're mentally castigating yourself for events beyond your control and consequently sullying what should be my store's celebratory and spring-like atmosphere."

"It's August."

"You're blaming yourself."

"I'm entitled!" Buffy retorted defensively.

Anya sighed.  "Buffy, may I be blunt?"

The question was so ludicrous, considering the source, that Buffy merely nodded dumbly.

"You are a Slayer.  You will _always be a Slayer, until your violent and premature death.  And yes, that makes you super-strength girl.  But it also makes you vulnerable.  Did that never occur to you?  You're a constant target, because of the forces out there –" Anya's slender hand flitted to the window and the encroaching darkness – "who __want what you have."_

For the rest of the afternoon Buffy pored over a text Giles had given her a few days earlier about the Huna philosophy and its practitioners.

"Kehoe's actions constituted a depraved misuse of their teachings," he stressed.  "It's important that you understand the root of your affliction, but also the virtue and compassion that lay behind their true beliefs."

All Buffy had digested at the time was 'read this', but she'd taken the book dutifully.  Now she was ready for it; she wanted to absorb the knowledge and puzzle out how something beautiful and honorable could be warped until unrecognizable.

_The crux of Huna…is that there exist three selves within each individual.  They are the higher, middle and lower selves._

_The low self, unihipili__ is like an animal.  It does not reason; it only reacts.  It is the center of all emotion._

_The middle self is the uhane__.  Uhane__ knows free will._

Aumakua_…is what the kahunas (teachers of the Ho'omana) call the highest self.  It is the parent, and is completely trustworthy._

Giles' notes in the margins: 'Kehoe subsumed your aumakua; made it beholden to impulse and error.'  Yeah, understatement of the year, Buffy thought.

_The aumakua guides and protects.  Communication with the aumakua__ occurs in its purest form during slumber.  It is then that the path of righteousness can be illuminated._

In a bittersweet rush Buffy recalled her conversations with William.  How only during their stolen moments together had she felt herself again.

_Positive interactions with our fellow man is__ vital to Huna.  When one individual makes contact with another, an aka__ thread unfurls between them.  Greater contact adds more threads, which finally braid together in an aka__ cord.  When the cord is drawn between the two there is understanding, there is allegiance, there is devotion.  _

***************************************

Dawn and Buffy lingered over the remains of an early dinner.  Dawn frowned as she pushed apple sauce around on her plate.  "I hate this kind.  This isn't the kind Mom bought."

Buffy made a point of checking the label.  "You're right," she agreed.  "I'll remember next time."

"Sure you won't."

"What's wrong?" Buffy asked softly.  Often Tara's death snuck up on them, making the easiest of moments awkward and aching.  But Buffy suspected there was something else wrong tonight.

"I'm worried about Spike.  He doesn't talk as much, and he's all pasty."

I wouldn't know, Buffy thought.  He'd spent time with Dawn since they'd gotten back, plenty of time, but every instance Buffy had gone by his crypt he was nowhere to be found.  It wasn't like Spike to scurry off, much less at Buffy's approach.  He was defying his own reckless nature in order to avoid her.  Which was ironic (although Buffy was never quite sure when something was ironic and when it was just sucky), because she needed to talk to him.  Okay, she needed to hear him talk to her, and this time, she'd talk back.  Really talk, not just abuse him with her words and her body.  And maybe, just maybe tell him what he'd been waiting so long to hear.

All she said was, "Dawn, he's a vampire.  He's been pasty for as long as you've known him."

"Not like this.  I think he's watching too much TV."

"Spike loves TV."

"Yeah, but even he can have too much of a good thing.  If he sees one more of those 1-800 commercials I'm afraid he's going to do something awful to Carrot Top."

"He can't do anything.  Carrot Top is human."

"That's not what Spike says," Dawn replied ominously.

"What do you expect me to do about it?" Buffy asked, more brusquely than she intended.

Dawn rolled her eyes.  "You're worse than he is.  For starters, just tell him you love him already.  Oh, what, did you think I didn't know?" she sniffed, when Buffy choked on her Frappucino and her eyes bulged.  "You might as well be wearing a sign around your neck: _Feeling Guilty About How I Treated Spike."_

Buffy coughed and searched frantically for a napkin.  "That's not the same as –"

Dawn nodded solemnly.  "No.  No, it's not."

"That's right," Buffy muttered.

"But I think you _calling out his name in your sleep clinches it!" _

Buffy projectile-mochaed again.  Dawn screwed her face up in distaste.  "Say it, don't spray it."

"I don't – I have _never – Oh, God. What else did I say?"_

"Not much, thank God.  Although I now live in fear of hearing your gross bedroom secrets.  If you start acting like one of the chicks in those Herbal Essences commercials, I'm going to start sleeping at Janice's."

Buffy tried to compose herself.  "I think you're the one who's watched too much TV," she said in an attempt at authority.  "And I think I know exactly who's to blame."

"Great.  Give him hell, Buff."

"I'll do that.  Yes.  That's just what I'll do."

"I wouldn't beat around the bush, if I were you," her sister said offhandedly as she rose to put her dish in the sink.  "He's starting to look around."

Buffy frowned.  "What do you mean, look around?"

Dawn shrugged and turned on the water, leaning against the sink as she waited for it to warm.  "I'm just saying, he might have moved on.  He, ah…" Dawn bit her lip in a gesture of vacillation.

"He what?  Tell me!"

"Well, I played my Destiny's Child CD a lot.  You remember that one?"

"Intimately.  I'm surprised Spike didn't use it as a coaster."

"Oh, no.  He likes it.  Really likes it.  And…he likes the lead singer.  Really likes her."

Buffy gaped.  "Spike has a crush on Beyonce?"

Dawn nodded gravely.

"Oh."  Of course.  

"Well, there were all those trailers for 'Austin Powers: Goldmember', too.  Don't freak, Buffy.  I'm sure you're still his girl."

"Not if he listened to me," Buffy mumbled.  This was great.  This was no problem.  All she had to do was convince him of her abiding sanity, profess her love to him and compete with a gorgeous, platinum-record-selling pop diva/movie star.

No problem at all.

Later, on her way to patrol she found herself on Giles' doorstep.  Funny how that happened.  It was after eleven when she knocked, but he was still up.  He smiled down at her and ushered her inside.

"Sorry to stop by so late.  I was wondering if I could talk to you about…"  She trailed off.

"Of course, Buffy.  Would you like some tea?"  She didn't answer, and he frowned.  "What?"

"Giles.  You have a computer."  

It was a compact silver box with a flat-screen monitor that glowed trippily in the dim apartment.  He'd obviously been on it when she rang the bell.

"Oh.  Yes.  That was at Anya's suggestion.  She felt it would be a more efficient method of discussing the monthly expenses, purchasing trips, construction issues.  I must admit that once I made a few mental adjustments to the concept, I've found it quite an agreeable device."

"Uh-huh."  A well-known _ping sounded from the machine.  "Instant Messenger?"_

He cleared his throat.  "Tea?"

Her brain could only handle so much at once.  The mental image of Spike and Beyonce Knowles trading hair-care tips crowded out the image of Giles IMing.  "Tea would be wonderful."

A few minutes later the delicate cup warmed her hands, and Giles watched her with reserved benevolence.  "It's so good to see you out and about, Buffy."

"It feels…okay.  I mean, not great, obviously.  But…okay."  She smiled weakly.  "If nothing else, I guess I have an excuse for not going back to the Doublemeat.  Do you think temporary soul-removal is covered by disability?"

Giles' eyes were gentle and knowing.  "I know all this must be a terrible struggle.  Thank you, Buffy.  Thank you for being strong for the rest of us."

She wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry at that.  "Giles, I'm about to do something you're probably going to hate me for."

"The way I hated you when you attacked your friends and burned down the store?  Oh, wait," Giles took a contemplative sip of his tea.  "I didn't."

"You might think this is worse."

In a hushed, desperate tone she whispered her need, and the love that had seemed lacking but in the last weeks had been all around her, cloaking her in regret like a hairshirt.

Giles listened with an expression of building worry and resignation.  When he finally spoke his voice was weary.

"There's very little I can tell you, Buffy.  You're an adult, and entitled to make your own choices.  Romantic and otherwise.  I can only implore you – think of what your mother would feel about all this."

"Mom liked Spike."

Giles paled.  "Oh, dear God.  You're right.  Well, your mother did have abysmal taste in men.  She once brought home a robot that looked like Jack Tripper from that awful television show."

Buffy raised her eyebrows.  "True.  She also slept with you.  Twice."

"I rest my case."

Buffy smiled ruefully, and after a moment so did Giles. He reached out and put a hand on her shoulder, briefly, before withdrawing again.

"Buffy, I could find no fault in Spike's care for Dawn while you were incapacitated.  He protected her with his life and I have no doubt he would have died for her.  But there's very little I can read into that behavior that I don't already know: Spike is obsessed with you.  If you asked him to stop the earth's revolution I believe he would do his damnedest to achieve that.  That is understandable, but it is not a character recommendation."

"Giles…" She did not want to tell him this; did not want to reveal more of her other self's ugliness.  But she was so tired of trying to puzzle it out on her own.

"The night he found me, when I was still…you know."  Giles waited patiently.

"I offered him everything he ever wanted.  Me, on a silver platter.  And a fun-loving, crazy, make-'em-bleed me.  Like, his ideal Buffy. Way better than the 'Bot could ever be.  His fantasy, just waiting for him to reach out and take it."

Giles winced.

"He turned me down."

Buffy laughed quietly.  "I was so angry.  I couldn't understand.  I'm not sure if I do now.  But he was determined to bring back the real Buffy, even if it meant I'd despise him and mock him again.  He wanted Dawn to have her sister back.  Dawn…God, Giles.  The way he treated her.  I could see the love for her shining in him.  It had nothing to do with me.  He doesn't love her because she was once part of me, or because for a while there she was all he had.  He loves her because of who _she is.  He knows her.  I'm not certain even my friends can say that."_

There was silence for a while.  

"I love him, Giles.  When I came back to myself, it was like waking up from the longest sleep.  I saw things…I saw him.  There for me like he had been all along.  And he saved me, knowing that he might lose me forever.  Isn't that love?"

_To Be Continued._

_Author's Note: Information on the Huna teachings was used without permission from Joshua David Stone's Hidden Mysteries, as found on the following website: http://www.crystalinks.com/huna.html. _

_Also, I know I promised Spuffy goodness and Willowy badness.  But you know that Our Heroes can't make anything easy on themselves.  And Willow?  She's getting all evil-ed up at this very moment._


	18. Wouldn't It Be Good

_Title: _Roundabout

_Author: _Serpentine

_Rating: _R

_Disclaimer: _All characters of 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' are used without permission.

_Author's Notes: _This is set post-'Hell's Bells', and while it overlaps some themes of 'Normal Again', for my purposes, that events in that episode haven't occurred. Special, special thanks to the following people: Badass-Beta Annie; Miss Murchison, who walked me through aspects of Buffy and Spike's relationship that came up in this chapter; Valerie, for…being Valerie; and the folks at http://www.bandofbuggered.com/forum/ for soothing my 'Seeing Red'-addled brain and offering me gay sex.

_Feedback: _This is my first story posted to fanfiction.net.  I'd appreciate reviews: devilpiglet@yahoo.com.

_Website: _http://www.geocities.com/devilpiglet

***************************************

Buffy stood, determined, in the middle of Spike's crypt.

She'd done this before, she realized.  To wrestle information from him, and then later to wrestle him to the floor.  And that last time, to beckon him away from the pain and uselessness and rejection he'd come to know.  She'd failed there, where she'd succeeded so many other times before.  For once he'd not succumbed to her, lain himself prostrate before her every whim.

She looked around.  The end of their relationship had made one hell of a mess.  Sooty walls, rubble littering a space he'd once managed to make almost hospitable.  

Right now, of course, Spike was nowhere to be found.  Just as he'd been absent almost every time she'd come by since their return to Sunnydale.  Did he really think she'd give up on him so easily?

Not like she had ever given him any reason to think otherwise, but still.  It was a little insulting, that he assumed she'd just accept defeat.  This…this avoidance tactic was dumb, really.  Maybe he figured she didn't possess enough patience to wait him out. Ha.  Ha!  Wasn't he in for a surprise.

Four hours later her butt was sore, her joints ached and she felt like a fool.  Not a noteworthy way to end an evening at Spike's, but usually she at least had several earth-shattering orgasms to show for it.

Buffy frowned.  Was that still how she thought of him?  As her own personal, unliving sex toy?  No wonder he'd pressed her for more; no wonder his frustration drove him to his own cruelties.

As she pondered this new thought he grabbed her from behind.

She glimpsed blue eyes gone empty and cold before she was thrown across the room, skidding roughly on the cool stone floor.  She looked up at him, wary.

Oh, yeah.  They'd done this last time as well.

"Well, well.  Look what's landed on my doorstep." His lips twisted in a mockery of a smile.

"I came to…talk to you."  She hated how uncertain her voice sounded.  "I think we need to.  Talk."

Spike shook his head.  "That just leads to more messes, wouldn't you agree?  Threats of violence; throwing of tantrums and furnishings."  His glance flickered to the lone surviving candle, perched askew along the far wall.

Buffy swallowed.  "Not this time."

He raised an eyebrow and Buffy recalled the moment she had first seen him.  So self-assured and clever, congratulating her even as he promised her death.

"Not this time?  I see, then," he said conspiratorially, and instantly he had vaulted over the wreckage that separated them.  He was close to her now, so close her flesh was chilled by his proximity.

"You came for your little nasties, hmm?  For all the naughty words I whisper in your ear, and make you whisper back to me.  You don't want to do it, but you know what will happen if you don't."

"_No," she said hotly, while she was melting inside at the memories._

He pulled back from her.

"Ah.  So you want old Spike to make you feel better."  At the sudden lowering of her gaze he snickered.  "That's it.  Act all demure and wounded.  Always worked on me before."  

"I told you.  I just want to talk."

His smile remained but there was no compassion in his gaze.  "Right.  You want to unload.  'S hard, I imagine, taking all the troubles of the world onto those tiny shoulders.  Poor Buffy Summers, the Sunnydale Stigmatic."

Vitriol was on the tip of her tongue – and now she recognized it for her typical reaction when he said what she couldn't bear to hear.  So she held herself still for a moment, and when she did speak her tone was gentle.

"You haven't been by," she observed.

He stared at her, then shrugged.  "Bit's come to see me.  On her own, mind you.  No trickery involved.  You can't stop me from seeing her, you know.  She's one of mine now."

Buffy smiled slightly.  "I think she always was."

 "Not like big sis, eh?  Best be careful, Slayer.  You keep coming by my place, I might start getting the wrong idea."  He stepped closer, breaching her space as always, breaching the barriers she erected so long ago.

The familiar quakes were beginning, that fluttering low in her stomach whenever he was this near.  But damn him, they were going to have this out.

"And if you keep running away from me, I might start to think you're scared."

His face hardened.  

"Scared?" he asked her, the word deceptively light.  "Should I be?  Is your better half going to come out and play?"  Buffy flinched.  He went on.

"Or maybe…_maybe you figure this is where you belong, after all."_

He was touching her now, knowing fingers running along her summer-bare arms.  "Muddied yourself up good and proper now, haven't you?  And now you don't deserve anyone – _anything – better than me."_

He pebbled kisses along her jawline, the arch of her throat, her too-prominent collarbone.  

"This isn't what I…"

"Shhh," he murmured.  "This is the only talking we've ever done."

Buffy allowed his hands to roam over her, felt herself suffused with pleasure when he entered her.  But there was more, so much more that it could be.

"Love you, Spike.  Love you."

He stopped.  Everything stopped for a fraction of a second, and then he looped his other arm around her torso and pulled her up sharply.  

"You…little…_bitch."  His other hand rose to cover her mouth and he picked up again.  She bit down on his palm and felt blood flow into her mouth.  His hand relaxed for an instant and that was all she needed.  "I love you."_

"You're gone in the head, you know that?"  But his voice faltered.

"I love you.  Do you hear me?  Do you understand?  I love you."

His forehead rested on the back of her neck; she could feel the furrow of his brow.  "No."

"Yes."  She arched back, taking him deeper.  He thrust reflexively, fast and ferocious.

His arm still held her tight against his chest; for all that he couldn't seem to stand looking at her, he wouldn't let her fall.  Ever.  She wrapped her hands around his clenched forearm.  "Love you, Spike.  Love you, love you, always you, love you, love you, love you…"  As the words poured out of her mouth Buffy felt the orgasm build and unfurl within her, different from all the times before because this time she rejoiced in the thought that it was _him giving it to her._

He made sounds now that she didn't comprehend, savage and primal.  He knew she was close and that did it for Spike every time.  "You – don't –" but his voice was failing him and his grip on her now was desperate, not quite so angry.

"Love you, love you, _you…"_

"Buffy…_please…"  She didn't know what he was asking and her vision was blurring now so she just turned her head so she could kiss him softly at the same moment she came so hard.  Finally, finally his lips descended and met hers and then he joined her, grunting out helpless nonsense, teeth scraping hers._

"Love you, love you…" The whispers continued even after, and when she heard Spike's voice weave with hers in the same litany Buffy at last closed her eyes.

 ***************************************

Willow smiled serenely.

"You take it black, right?" she asked Xander.  "My mind seems to be everywhere at once, these days."

He nodded gratefully, happy at her calm.  Happy just to see her.  After Tara's burial, Willow had been so distant, almost secretive.  Moving out of Buffy's house, making Xander swear not to reveal her whereabouts.  It had unnerved him; he'd wanted things back to normal.  Was that so damn much to ask?  

Maybe not.  Willow's gaze was clear and seemingly guileless.  She reached out, rested a porcelain hand on his knee.  "I'm glad Buffy came through all this.  I can't see her yet, but…I'm very, very glad."

"Great," Xander muttered.  "You can lead the Spike parade down Wilkins Boulevard."

Willow's expression turned questioning.  Xander sighed.  "I'm just…having a hard time with it.  The Spike-as-hero routine.  He's evil, and dangerous, and really annoying, and…_Spike."_

Willow pursed her lips thoughtfully.  "It can't be that everyone else has forgotten what he's done in the past."

"Well, they have," Xander grumbled.  "Anyway, I'm not thinking so much about 'everybody' as I am about Buffy."

Laughter made his best friend's eyes crinkle and dance.  "What else is new?"  There was no malice in her tone.

"She's been looking for him, Will!  She thinks about him all the time, I can tell.  So he babysat Dawn for a few weeks!  Does that cancel all the rest out?  Since when does he get a fucking free pass?  He's a monster, and he should have been dust years ago.  Years!"  Xander exploded.  "What the _hell will it take?"_

He was standing now, enraged.  Willow rose as well, and turned his face to hers.

"Oh, Xander," she whispered.  "Let me make things right."

_To Be Continued._

For an alternative version of this chapter, please go to http://www.geocities.com/devilpiglet/wouldn'titbegood.htm.

By clicking on the above link you confirm that you are at least seventeen (17) years of age.


	19. Are You Experienced?

_Title: _Roundabout

_Author: _Serpentine

_Rating: _R

_Disclaimer: _All characters of 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' are used without permission.

_Author's Notes: _This is set post-'Hell's Bells', and while it overlaps some themes of 'Normal Again', for my purposes, that events in that episode haven't occurred. Special, special thanks to the following people: Badass-Beta Annie; Miss Murchison, who walked me through aspects of Buffy and Spike's relationship that came up in this chapter; Valerie, for…being Valerie; and the folks at http://www.bandofbuggered.com/forum/ for soothing my 'Seeing Red'-addled brain and offering me gay sex.

_Feedback: _This is my first story posted to fanfiction.net.  I'd appreciate reviews: devilpiglet@yahoo.com.

_Website: _http://www.geocities.com/devilpiglet

***************************************

"Dear Lord, Anya.  It smells like an opium den in here."

Her head popped up comically from behind the front counter.  "I got a new shipment of incense.  Siam Lassitude Spice."

"Yes, well.  I'm sure the college students will like it."  Giles studied her now, as he had often over the last several weeks.  Anya was a dilemma to him, suddenly.  He wanted to tell himself that she'd changed, that Xander's betrayal and the recent crises had tempered her candor.  But that reasoning seemed superficial.  He wondered, instead, if her fiance's constant admonitions to her and the ill-disguised contempt she'd been accorded by others had, in fact, blinded them to something quite special in their midst.  Something quite special, indeed.

"Are you happy here?" he asked abruptly.

Her head rose again, slowly this time.  "Here…?"

He cleared his throat.  "In Sunnydale.  Working at the store.  Does it satisfy you?"  His last words hung in the air between them.

"Oh."  She appeared to consider this.  "I'm good at retail," she offered finally.

"Without a doubt."

"And de-Buffying the merchandise will require at least another three weeks, maybe more."

"She does tend to have a rather…turbulent effect on her surroundings."

"And I realize that the store doesn't look anything like it used to, but I still feel…connected somehow.  Does that make any sense?  It can't be very human, I don't think, this attachment to a small building of rather shoddy craftsmanship."

"It makes perfect sense, to me," he smiled.  "You've built this shop into quite the viable enterprise.  It represents many hours of hard work and ingenuity on your part."

Her eyes widened slightly.  Giles wondered how long it had been since she'd received a compliment.  Xander had never praised her in Giles' presence, at least.  He felt again, keenly, how she'd been treated as an interloper among them.

When she spoke again, her voice was tremulous.  "They need me."

Giles waited.

"Buffy, Dawn – even Spike.  God, even Xander.  But Buffy especially.  I can talk to her, Giles.  About…discovering our capacity for evil.  And then living with it.  Because what's the alternative?"

Giles recalled the sick awareness that had swamped him after he suffocated Ben.  He'd done it to save them, to save the world, to save Buffy, but Buffy had died just the same.  And Giles had been left with his grief and his punctured righteousness.

And then, oddly, he thought of Spike.  Spike, who'd gone good to help them but who had lost everything still.

"It's a relief to her, I think, to have someone who doesn't look at her and see everything she isn't; see only a Slayer gone bad."  Anya's brows drew together in contemplation.  "Although sometimes I look at her and see how much more attractive she would be if she'd curl her hair just a bit.  Right at the ends."

Giles found that his smile had returned.  It felt good, to look at Anya and feel something akin to comfort.  And something…else.

"Perhaps the two of you can take an afternoon off and do…" he faltered. "Female things."

Anya frowned.  "You mean have lesbian sex?"

For a full minute he gaped at her, while she gazed back inquisitively.  Finally, he shook his head.

"No.  No, I was thinking of, ah, shopping.  Or a trip to one of those day spas.  I'd be happy to sponsor the outing."  Was he still blushing?  His ears felt hot.

Anya paled marginally.  "You mean, hang out?  Her and me?"

"Well, Dawn may also enjoy some pampering.  I daresay the weeks she spent with Spike did not include many opportunities for extensive grooming.  I must admit, I'd prefer not to hear another diatribe on how a month without conditioner has damaged her follicles irreparably."  

But Anya appeared nearly panicked at the prospect.  "She and I….recently we've spent time together, involving mutual unburdening and the occasional emotional outburst.  And she's done an excellent job repairing those pine display cases.  But, Giles…it's not as though she _likes me."_

For the longest moment he looked at her – the sudden vulnerability in her gaze; the way her fingers gripped the cash register like a drowning man would a life preserver.  So afraid of rejection, and who was he to blame her?  She'd been rejected in the most public, most humiliating manner imaginable.  And here he stood, blithely suggesting that she extend herself to someone who had never previously expressed much interest.

Mistaking his perusal, she nodded, a bit jerkily.  "Precisely.  Buffy would have very little inclination to engage in that sort of female bonding with…me.  Really, if we simply continue to cry and emote and occasionally eat fish tacos together, things will be fine.  Don't you worry, Rupe – Giles," she corrected quickly.  "She's going to get better every day, until this whole murder and insanity affair is merely an unpleasant memory.  Why, even now –"

She was still talking when he leaned across the counter and kissed her.

***************************************

There was silence as Buffy and Spike lay together, after.  In the past Spike had filled the space with accusations, coaxes, taunts.  Now, though his arms clutched her to his chest securely, he didn't speak.  

He was holding back, she knew.  Still not ready to believe her, even while their guttural _I love yous hung heavy in the air between them.  She could almost see the machinery of his brain working feverishly, trying to envision a scenario in which she was telling the truth.  _

She got that.  She wasn't entirely accustomed to the 'I'm in love with Spike' concept herself, and it had been percolating within her for a few weeks now.  

_Oh, it's been longer than that, wouldn't you say? BadBrain prompted.  _

_Well, Buffy conceded, __maybe._

It was all so new, and so old _("I'd rather be fighting you anyway."  "Mutual."), and so very strange.  And Buffy didn't like the tension that stifled them both now.  Then her eyes brightened.  She had something else to tell him._

"I met William."

Nothing like weirdness on top of weirdness, she figured.

He didn't stir, didn't turn his gaze from where it was fastened somewhere on the cracked ceiling.  "William who?"

"William _you.  Your – your –"  She waved her hand helplessly.  "You know."_

He scooted out from under her, unceremoniously dumping her on the floor in the process.  "Like hell you did."

"I did!"

"You're mad."

"_So over that.  No, it's true.  When I was – stuck – in there, he came to me in my dreams."  _

"Oh, this sounds like some bad Lifetime movie," Spike snapped.  

"It does not!  And what would you know about it anyway?  Or the Lifetime channel for that matter?" 

"Ask your sister.  All summer long I've been watching tales of courage and sacrifice and husbands who turn out to be murderous polygamists.  And they all starred that bird who was in 'One Day At a Time.'"  He thought back.  "Well, sometimes there was Laura from 'Little House on the Prairie.'  Bizarre.  I kept waiting for Almanzo to kidnap her daughter."

"Spike.  Stop trying to change the subject."

"What subject?  You were hallucinating.  No real surprise, that.  But you _didn't see him."_

"Why are you so freaked about this?  He was nice.  He helped me."

"There is no he.  William's dead."  Spike smirked unpleasantly.  "Pissed on his grave myself.  Look, I might have crawled out of the ground where they dumped him but I left him behind when I did.  There is no William."

"There is!"  She folded her arms and glared at him.  "And he told me things."

"What things?!"

"Lots of things.  _Tons of things.  Hundreds of interesting bits of information."_

Spike looked so horrified that Buffy had to relent.  "Oh, relax.  We didn't talk about you.  Much.  We talked about…how to do the right thing when it seems impossible.  He gave me hope.  I was ready to give up, Spike."  

He was listening to her now, despite himself.  She needed him to know; needed him to understand what William had explained (better than she would, she was certain) about the whole good and evil thing.  Spike had known about the gray area between the two, long before she had.  But Spike needed hope now as well – the hope she'd pounded out of him in an alley, the hope that had been behind his blustery posturing when Riley had discovered them.  He'd been needling her ex, but she saw now that he'd also been trying to convince himself that this could work, that he could love his Slayer and she could love him in return.

She'd taken the last shreds of that hope with her when she'd swept out of his crypt that last time.  And what he had done after that – confronting her, protecting Dawn, battling to restore her to the person she'd been (_the person who'd cut him out of her life) – that had been for her sake, and Dawn's.  _

"He showed me stuff I hadn't seen before.  Hadn't wanted to, hadn't been able to…I don't know.  But he showed me, the way you dug goodness out of yourself.  You found it in you, Spike, even when everybody said there was none to be found."

"I don't want to hear this," he said.  His head was down now, hanging between his bent knees as he sat.

"Yeah, I'm kind of getting that.  But I'm leading up to something, so…as you told me once, you'll forebear.  Right?"

An unintelligible grunt.  She went on.

"I don't make you do the right thing, Spike.  Something's happened over the last two years.  Something amazing."  She poked his bare foot with her own.  "And I want to stick around to see what happens next."

Then he looked up at her, all sloe-eyed sex and promise.  And showed her what happened next.

An hour later, as she walked home, Buffy could still feel a foolish smile tugging at her lips.  God, was this joy she felt?  The retrieval of something she didn't know she'd lost.  How he'd been swayed by her words, against his will.

And, of course, the incredible sex.  Nice to know that in a whirlwind of realization and adjustment, some things hadn't changed.  She was still smiling when she drifted up to her porch and unlocked the door.

"Bloody buggering hell!"

Startled, Buffy slammed the front door behind her.  She dropped her bag on the floor and walked to the kitchen.

"Dawn?"

"Stupid washing machine is broken again," Dawn muttered as she climbed up the stairs from the basement.  "And I have to wear that outfit to Janice's tonight.  Okay?  I _have to." _

"Using that kind of language won't help the washing machine problem and it certainly isn't going to get you to Janice's tonight."  Buffy went to the junk drawer and began rummaging for a wrench.

Dawn stared at her, a genuinely blank expression on her face.  Then she pouted.  "Like you can tell me not to swear, Miss Use-A-Huge-Ass-Butcher-Knife-To-Try-And-Kill-My-Little-Sister.  You _so can't act all morally superior." _

Buffy whirled around, aghast.  "I didn't – you know that I wasn't in control – I tried to…"  She narrowed her eyes.  "And it wasn't a 'huge-ass butcher knife'.  It was the same knife Mom used to carve the pumpkin at Halloween."

"Oh, and that's supposed to make me feel better?"

"Are you going to bring this up every time we have an argument?"

"Are you going to let me go to Janice's?"

"Start your homework.  I'll take a look at the washer and then we'll talk about it again."  They'd spent the time since she'd returned in a tender, if delicate, companionship.  Now, Buffy saw, the honeymoon was clearly over.  

Dawn grabbed her books off the kitchen table and stomped out of the room.  Buffy nearly, _nearly didn't hear her sister's last words._

"What was that? What did you say?"  Dawn merely harrumphed.

"Did you say _Crazy Buffy would have let you go?"  _

Buffy placed the wrench carefully, so carefully down on the counter.  Then she followed Dawn into the living room.  "I asked you a  –" She gasped.

"Willow."

Her friend stood in the doorway, wreathed in yellow light.  But it wasn't the sun; too bright, too harsh for that.  It hurt Buffy's eyes to look.

"Why, there's the Summers I've been looking for," Willow said in a tone of saccharine sweetness.  "I've got a bone to pick with you, Buffy. Well, actually about two hundred and six."  A short, brittle laugh.  "Sorry.  You were never the scholar, were you?  Kinda ruins the joke."

Buffy moved next to Dawn and reached for her sister's hand.  Finding it, she felt a quick, reassuring squeeze.  Strength.

"I'm so glad you came back," Buffy said truthfully.  "I tried and tried to find you, Willow.  I asked Xander – and your parents said you were traveling – where were you?  Are you…"  Seemed foolish, even cruel to ask.  "How are you?"

Willow lifted her hands in a gesture of resignation.  "Oh, you know.  Some days are better than others.  Some days I just want to die, so I can be with her.  And other days…Other days, I want to kill."

Buffy stepped forward, close enough to embrace.  "Willow, I can't begin to explain it, or make up for what happened.  I wish it had been me, instead of –"

Willow slapped her.

Buffy recoiled, more from shock than anything else.  Willow shrugged.

"Hey – if I had any say in the matter," she replied, "it would have been you.  But wanna hear something ironic?  I wasted my chance, Buff.  All that studying and preparation for the resurrection spell?  The one that brought you back?  That was my one shot.  And I used it on _you.  So when Tara – when Tara –" She broke off, choking on the words.  Buffy approached her again but Willow's left hand flew up.  "__Back."_

Buffy was knocked backwards, landing painfully on the hardwood floor of the hallway.  She looked up, re-evaluating the situation even as misery and guilt vied for position in her gut.  She just had to get Dawn out of the house; then she and Willow could talk.  This was _Willow, after all.  _

But Dawn was next to Buffy now, long arms frantically pulling at her sister.  Buffy stood, her eyes never leaving her friend's.

"I don't expect you to forgive me," Buffy told her resolutely.  Tears threatened, but she held herself steady.  This wasn't about her, not really.  This was Willow's loss, she thought.  Willow's turn.  

Buffy moved up once more.  "You know I love you.  I loved Tara.  If there was anything that I could do –"

Willow cocked her head, as if considering this.  "Well," she replied, "now that you mention it…"

A hazy image sprang up between girls, flickering and wavering.  The scene it showed, however, was clear.

"You can watch your lover die.  Just like I did."

Spike, naked and chained.  Skin flayed open. Blood running in crimson rivers along abused flesh, and eyes –

Eyes now no more than blackened gouges in his skull.  

Buffy found that she could do nothing but stare at the vision, even as some new torment assailed Spike and his lips parted in a soundless scream.  There was another presence with him, although how she knew that Buffy couldn't say.  Because she couldn't tear her gaze from Spike's body.  Beside her Dawn whimpered piteously, but Buffy remained motionless.  Her limbs were leaden, her voice banished by horror, and her heart…_Spike.  My Spike._

Willow grinned.  "Welcome home, Buffy."

_To Be Continued. _


	20. Wicked Witch

_Title: _Roundabout

_Author: _Serpentine

_Rating: _R

_Disclaimer: _All characters of 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' are used without permission.

_Author's Notes: _This is set post-'Hell's Bells', and while it overlaps some themes of 'Normal Again', for my purposes, that events in that episode haven't occurred. Special, special thanks to the following people: Badass-Beta Annie; Miss Murchison, who walked me through aspects of Buffy and Spike's relationship that came up in this chapter; Valerie, for…being Valerie; and the folks at http://www.bandofbuggered.com/forum/ for soothing my 'Seeing Red'-addled brain and offering me gay sex.

_Feedback: _This is my first story posted to fanfiction.net.  I'd appreciate reviews: devilpiglet@yahoo.com.

_Website: _http://www.geocities.com/devilpiglet

***************************************

Chained, strung up, bleeding like one of his own victims.  The pain had hazed Spike's mind but one thought filtered through:

_This gig's no more fun the second time round._

A few feet away Xander paced, waiting for somebody to tell him what to do, and occasionally cringing as some new torment was visited on his prisoner.  Didn't have the stomach for torture, that much was obvious.  This wasn't his deal anyway – it reeked of vengeance, and not the kind Anya and Halfrek played at either.  This was visceral and bitter, the bereaved howl of broken devotion.

He'd always known Red had it in her.

Had his eye on her, he did, even before her Wicca power-tripping.  Entertained himself with thoughts of bringing her over to his team, until the one time he tried ended in his own horror and ignominy.  Then he'd watched, indifferently at first and later with growing wariness, as she'd suffused herself with the dark arts.  He'd seen how it emboldened her, made her forget her past disgraces and the inadequacies she still feared.  

Well, hell.  The parallels were hard to miss.

But the Superfriends…they'd considered her harmless, preferring to remember the shy and slightly geeky girl of their youth.  Stupid, that.  "Stupid," he tried to whisper, around the blood and broken teeth, but the sound came out garbled and wet.  

She'd resurrected a Slayer, messed with her chums' collective heads, and nearly killed Dawn – an incident that had triggered a shouting match between him and Buffy about Willow's continued presence in the house.  He'd called Buffy deliberately dense, and she'd accused him of being motivated by nothing more than jealousy.  They'd enraged and incensed each other until all that was left was the shagging.  The argument had gone unresolved.

He'd been as complacent as the others, he realized now.  So consumed with his lonely love life he'd not seen her power swelling.  Tara's death had been more than an excuse; it had been a call to arms. 

Now he had all the time in the world to wonder what mystical retribution awaited him.

***************************************

"You know," Willow mused, as the morbid reflection pulsed before them, "I keep feeling like there's some witty comment I should be making right about now."  She frowned disapprovingly when Buffy and Dawn didn't speak, but then her face lit up.  "I know.  

"'I'll get you, my pretty.'"  Her laughing gaze drifted to Spike.  "'And your little dog, too.'"

Around Willow, along the walls and underneath their feet, blue-white energy crackled as though an electrical storm had broken.  It danced at the tips of Willow's fingers and outlined her wraithlike form.  Strange, churning moans echoed in the house but seemed to come from beyond it, voices that had traveled across miles and eons to keen there, at that moment.

Dawn had her arms wrapped around Buffy, holding her up and holding on herself.  "You _bitch," she hissed at Willow.  "You – take him down from there.  Spike didn't do anything.  He helped us."_

Willow shrugged.  "Didn't help me any.  Tara's dead.  Buffy's standing.  And if I'm not mistaken," she cocked her head at Buffy's stricken expression, "she's in love.  _Awww__."_

Dawn seethed silently, but the words shocked Buffy into action.

"Stop it," she said tightly.  "Whatever you're doing to him, just stop it.  This is between you and me."

Willow nodded.  "I agree.  I really, really do.  That's why this is happening, Buffy – to make us even.  All I'm looking for is justice. Do you think I ask too much?" she prodded, as Buffy regarded her stonily. "There's more I could do, I promise.  I could send your Key back to where she came from – keep her floating in the ether for all eternity.  Or Giles – heard he's back in town.  Shall I pay him a visit?"

"I won't let you," Buffy answered sharply.  "And I won't let you get away with this, either."

Willow smirked.  "Oh, does the Slayer have something up her sleeve?  'Cause it seems to me there's nothing you can do but watch."

She breathed in deeply, eyes closing for the briefest moment.  The image in front of them electrified, brightened, and now Spike's anguish seemed to fill the room; his body bathed in scarlet, his grimace of pain exquisitely defined.

"Check this out," Willow invited them.  Her voice rose imperiously.  "Xander!"

And now he stepped into view, strained and unhappy, eyes incongruously trained heavenward.  "Willow?"

"Oh, God," Buffy gasped.  

"Willow, it's enough," Xander was saying.  "End it now.  He's…you're…"

"Just getting started," she finished.

***************************************

"Ahem."

Silence.

"_Ahem!"_

Dimly, Giles heard someone speaking.  Anya was already pulling back.  With seeming reluctance she turned away from him, to the woman standing a few feet away.  "Hallie?" she said, a bit testily.  "I was very clearly in the midst of kissing someone.  It was enjoyable, and I would have liked it to go on indefinitely."

The woman sniffed.  "I see you're still trying to make a go of it with the humans.  Well excuse me, but I have some information I thought you'd be interested in.  Of course," and now her eyes raked over Giles appraisingly, "it's about your ex.  Maybe I should come back later."

"Xander?" Giles' brow furrowed.  "What about him?"

The woman – Hallie? merely raised one unimpressed eyebrow.  

"What is it?" Anya asked.

"Are you sure?  After all –"

"Halfrek!" Anya snapped.  

"Fine.  He's engaged in a rather vulgar – in my humble opinion – display of _highly unapproved vengeance.  D'Hoffryn is __not pleased. Great magics have been harnessed, and the effect throughout this dimension has been chaotic.  Spells have been altered; wishes to our kind have had unintended results. It's an altogether messy situation."_

Giles shook his head.  "Xander?  Why would he seek revenge?"

"Oh, it's not him." Halfrek assured them.  "It's his little friend.  Wanda?  Winnie?"

"Willow," Anya breathed.

***************************************

"Where are they?" Buffy demanded.  

"The boys, you mean?  It's sweet, seeing them together.  Two more men that Buffy Summers slayed.  Too bad Angel hasn't shown.  Then we could have some real fun."

Dawn was weeping now, as Spike hung limply from an anonymous ceiling and Xander pleaded with his best friend.  "Take him down, take him down," Dawn whimpered endlessly, and Buffy's heart broke for her sister.  _Spike is loved, she thought.  __Does he know?  Will he realize it before –_

"I gotta tell you, Buffy – take off Spike's clothes and throw some chains on him, and his appeal really comes through.  I understand what you see in him."  Peering closer, Willow surveyed the scene.  "I think I'm gonna bleed him.  Fitting, don't you think?  It's time for Spike to give a little back."

***************************************

"Willow!  Can you hear me?  Damn.  _Damn.  Willow!"  _

The only thing more insufferable than Xander Harris, Spike mulled groggily, was Xander Harris with the volume turned up.  At least the vicious, invisible gnawing on his flesh had abated somewhat.  He raised his head marginally, trying to assess his latest predicament.  Still had a bit of sight remaining in the left eye.  Enough to see his captor – and Spike loathed using that word to describe Harris – bobbing around anxiously like a misplaced marionette.  

"How?" Spike managed.  Xander stared at him.

"How'd…Red rope you into…this gig?"

Xander raised his chin.  "You've brought nothing but trouble since you showed up in Sunnydale.  I always knew, but – Willow showed me.  Showed me you and Buffy."  Disgust rolled off him in waves.  "I don't get, I don't _wanna get it, but I'm going to make sure it ends.  Here."_

Spike started to laugh, though it quickly degenerated into a hacking struggle for air.  Xander's face reddened.  "What? What the hell do you find so goddamn amusing?"

"Gotta…hand it to you," Spike mumbled.  "You…knew.  She'll keep coming back to me.  You can't send me away.  Can't threaten me.  Won't…keep us apart.  I'm inside her, now.  Always.  This…this is all you can do."  The pain that had retreated briefly had now returned, and Spike fought to force the words out.  "All you can do is kill me."

Xander shook his head.  "That wasn't – she said we were just going to teach you a lesson.  Make you understand."  He looked positively ill as he took in Spike's appearance now.

"Yeah? Understand this, then." Spike coughed up a mouthful of blood, and Xander flinched.  

"When all this is over, my girlfriend is gonna _kick your ass."_

***************************************

"Something's happening," Anya said fearfully.  The sky above them was crowded with clouds, but rain refused to come.  The air itself seemed putrid and sickly.

"How did your friend know of Xander and Willow's activities?"

Anya was panting as she rushed to keep up with Giles' long, determined strides. They hurried down Waverly to his car. "Halfrek is a vengeance demon.  We always know when someone's invoking that power, whether or not our presence is requested."  

"And D'Hoffryn has something against individuals wreaking vengeance without his help?"  He hastily yanked open the passenger side door and ushered her inside.

"Oh, not at all.  He's a firm believer in free enterprise and personal expression.  I can only think of a few circumstances under which he would disapprove of a vengeance effort."

"Such as?"  He glanced at Anya briefly as she straightened her skirt across her knees.

"Targeting children.  Recompense during wartime. Exacting revenge on someone other than the original offender.  Trying to unionize."

"I don't see how any of those – oh, dear God."

***************************************

Buffy couldn't look anymore; not at Spike twisting and shuddering in his bonds while Xander watched.  Steel edged her voice as she addressed Willow.  "You want to hurt me?  _Hurt me.  I'm right here."_

"Hurt you?"  Willow laughed, a little hysterically.  "I'll hurt you, Buffy.  That's the whole point.  The pain eats at you – you'll lie in your bed in the middle of the night, praying to die just so the aching, this awful _aching ends."  A choked sob suddenly escaped her, and when she looked at Buffy again her eyes were black with fury. "I'll make you feel it.  Make you feel like I do."_

"Know what?" Buffy said.  "I'm tired of talking."

She leapt across the image Willow had conjured and brought the witch to the ground.  As they grappled, Dawn threw herself alongside her sister and attempted to subdue Willow.  Instantly Willow flung her away, and there was a sickening crunch as Dawn's head hit the edge of the staircase.

Buffy turned to her sister, and in that moment Willow wrenched away until she was crouched over Buffy.  

"It doesn't have to be this way," Willow rasped.  

"You're right," Buffy replied, and flipped Willow over again.  

***************************************

Giles pounded on the door.  "Buffy!  If you're there, open up!"

A thump from inside, and that was all he needed to hear.  Fumbling for his keyring, Giles finally unlocked the door and shouldered it open.  When the scene was revealed, he stopped short, one restraining hand holding Anya at his back.  
Dawn sprawled awkwardly on the floor, blood trickling from her forehead.  Buffy and Willow, battling; and something both vibrant and sinister shimmering in the center of the room…

"Willow!"  Giles rushed to the thrashing pair as Anya stared, horribly transfixed, at the image of Spike and Xander.

"Back off," Willow snarled, and Giles staggered.  He righted himself quickly, though, and approached the two again.  

***************************************

"No.  Willow – stop!  Stop it!"

_Somebody shut him up, Spike pleaded with no one in particular.  __Is this to be my hell, then?  Listening to him babble on forever?_

"She's not – she's not making sense," Xander said worriedly.  Spike couldn't bring himself to care much.

"She went off the deep end long before this," he muttered.  "Shouldn't act so bloody dumbfounded about it."

Xander swallowed.  "She's hurting Buffy. And Dawn -- it wasn't supposed to happen this way.  None of this was supposed to happen."

Spike jerked in his chains. "Get me out of these," he growled.  

***************************************

Willow winced, onyx eyes snapping and flashing.  "Have to – concentrate," she gasped.  

"Here's something you can focus on," Buffy grunted, and tossed Willow into the living room. With Giles at her side, she followed Willow's trajectory in slow, measured steps.  

"End it now, Willow.  Before you do something that can't be undone."

"Bitch," Willow spat.  "Why should I stop?  You got your chance at bat already.  Don't I get to play?"

"I'm going to have to live with the consequences for the rest of my life," Buffy answered evenly.  "Is that what you want?"

"Consequences?  _I'm living with __your consequences.  Now you can live with mine."  But her voice wavered; a heady mix now of both heartache and rage.  The maelstrom surrounding them became increasingly frenzied and disjointed._

"Her power is fracturing," Giles whispered to Buffy.  "She's unable to deal with all of us at once."  He glanced behind him.  "And her accomplice is conflicted, to say the least."

 "Xander," Anya cried as she stood huddled over the vision. "Can you hear me?  Xander, it's Anya.  Please, stop this."

***************************************

"Do it, man!  Let me down from here!"

"Willow wouldn't…she's just trying to help Buffy," Xander said, but uncertainty tainted his words.

"If anything happens to Buffy or Dawn…"

"Nothing will!  I swear!"  Even as he spoke Willow's desperate wrangling assaulted his mind.

***************************************

Willow was edging away from them now, and they could see her efforts to regain her slipping control.  "It's not fair," she wept quietly, while Giles and Buffy and Anya – where she sat cradling Dawn -- eyed her warily.  "I deserve this.  I deserve to make this right."

Giles knelt now, careful not to threaten her.  "What you're doing here, Willow – this won't make anything right.  Tara wouldn't want this."

"Tara's dead!  What she wants is never going to matter anymore."

"She loved you," Buffy said.  "I love you.  Please don't destroy yourself."  Buffy tried to keep her tone convincing but Willow saw her clenched fists, the tendons that stood out on her arms as she forced herself not to attack.  The witch's lips curled grotesquely.

"Don't destroy him, you mean."  She wiped her nose and rose, fingers gripping the wall for purchase.  "I'm doing you a favor, but you're too selfish to see it."

"I think I can live without this kind of help," Buffy hissed.  "Dawn's hurt and Spike's –"

"His chip doesn't work!" Willow burst out.

Buffy's eyes narrowed.  Willow swallowed hard and continued.  

"I visited Rodger Kehoe."  She giggled a little, and Giles moved forward menacingly.  "Well, I tried.  He was gone.  His house was trashed.  Do you think your boyfriend actually went to the trouble of hiding the body?  Or did he just cut him up into tiny, tiny pieces?"

"What is it you wish to say, Willow?" Giles' voice brooked no tolerance.

"There were notes – records.  Kehoe kept them -- in the event of his untimely death.  He said that Spike agreed to spare his life in exchange for removing the chip or – or  rendering it useless."

"And you believe this?" Buffy exploded.  "This is the same guy who turned me into a raving lunatic!"

From the stairway, a cough.  Buffy turned to see her sister, eyes slitted open.  She sighed weakly.

"He wrote about the spell he used," Willow whispered.  "I wanted to be wrong, Buffy.  I wanted to find out that it hadn't been you, after all.  Faith – or the First Slayer – God, anybody.  Someone to blame this on.  Someone besides you."

Buffy's anger faded for a moment.  "I know what you mean."

"But it was you.  That whole time, in the Magic Box.  It was _you."  The sobs began again, in earnest.  "How could you, Buffy?  How could you?"_

Tears ran down Buffy's face now as well, as she crept toward her friend.  "I know.  I know, Willow."  Delicately, she reached out one slim hand to touch Willow's face.  "I can't make it right.  But we can make it better.  Please, Willow.  Please."

For seconds or hours, they simply sat.  Then Willow crumpled.  

She curled into a ball on the floor, sobbing.  The energy around her spiraled terrifyingly, piercing yowls and blinding, burning white light.  Then, suddenly, silence.

Giles was beside her, lifting her head and leaning her against his shoulder.  "Willow?  You must tell us how to free Spike."

"It's all right," Anya said quietly.  Giles turned.  

***************************************

The last chained was released, and Spike would have fallen had Xander not caught him.  "Hold up, Spike.  Gotta get you out of here."  He bore Spike's full weight and dragged him towards the exit of the tunnel.  Spike mumbled something that Xander couldn't understand.  "What?"

"Tool," came the scratchy reply.  "You…are such…a tool."

Xander frowned.  "Tool?  Not git, not wanker?  Where did you…oh."  _Dawn.  He'd picked that up after spending weeks protecting Dawn Summers.  __And hello to the guilt, Xander muttered inwardly.  _

But it was better.  Anything was better than the way he'd spent the last few hours, the way chaos and hatred had infiltrated his mind until he didn't know where he started and Willow began.  And he knew now that it was over.  _Buffy saves the day again.  _

He hefted Spike up and they made a slow path out of the room.

***************************************

"She's lucid," Anya murmured to Buffy, as she stroked Dawn's hair.  "I don't think she has a concussion but I'll take her to the hospital just in case."

"I'll go with you," Buffy answered, her eyes on her sister.  She finally pulled away.  "Giles?"

"Go."  He gripped Willow sturdily, gazing at them over her bent head.  "Willow and I…we'll be fine."

Buffy nodded slowly.  She remained still, registering all that had occurred.  Then she extended a hand to Anya and together they helped Dawn up.  Anya went to Giles and he wordlessly handed her his car keys.  In the next moment they were gone, and the Summers house was filled with nothing but the sound of lamentation.

_To Be Continued. _


	21. Back To Life

_Title: _Roundabout

_Author: _Serpentine

_Rating: _R

_Disclaimer: _All characters of 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' are used without permission.

_Author's Notes: _This is set post-'Hell's Bells', and while it overlaps some themes of 'Normal Again', for my purposes, that events in that episode haven't occurred. Special, special thanks to the following people: Badass-Beta Annie; Miss Murchison; Valerie, for…being Valerie; and the folks at http://www.bandofbuggered.com/forum/ for soothing my 'Seeing Red'-addled brain and offering me gay sex.

_Feedback: _This is my first story posted to fanfiction.net.  I'd appreciate reviews: devilpiglet@yahoo.com.

_Website: _http://www.geocities.com/devilpiglet

***************************************

"So then Buffy's all, 'Step off, bitch!' and I'm all, 'Yeah!' and and she and Willow totally throw down, and, um…well, then there was the being knocked unconscious, so I missed some stuff.  The whole time Willow's camcorder from Hell is going, right?  And Anya's yelling at Xander to stop, and then there was _more stuff, and then – this is the best part – Giles hands his car keys over to Anya!  He never let Buffy drive his car, not once."_

Spike just smiled faintly, one hand resting on the top of Dawn's head as she knelt on the floor beside him.  Her ceaseless chatter soothed him, distanced him from the pain.  Bright little magpie she was, already rewriting this afternoon's events as a rousing adventure tale.  She'd already imparted what she considered to be juicy gossip – that Willow had been remanded to the authority of an esteemed coven on the Isle of Wight, and that Giles and Anya would accompany her to England and remain there for the foreseeable future.  He'd let her charm him with her exaggerated description of the kiss Giles had bestowed on Anya when they returned from the hospital.  

But he saw the hardness in her eyes when she mentioned Willow's name, the way her mouth grew tight and her lips compressed when she spoke of seeing Spike's condition.  

"She'll not forgive Willow any time soon," he murmured when Dawn had left the room.  Buffy sat next to him on the couch, quiet and reflective as night stole over the house.

"She'd barely gotten over the whole driving-under-the-magical-influence fiasco," Buffy responded.  "Willow kind of used up any goodwill she had left."

He nodded, half-lidded gaze drifting across the room, the pendulous moon outside, the planes of her face.  "Grief does funny things to the head."  

"And you?" Buffy asked.  "Have you forgiven her?"

He would have killed – _could kill, he amended – for a cigarette, but being loved senselessly by Buffy Summers still did not permit one to smoke in her mother's living room. So his yearning fingers merely played over the PowerPuff Girls comforter Dawn had draped over him.  "Not for me to forgive."_

Buffy's expression went slack with shock.  "Hello?  She practically turned you into Spike-kabobs." 

He curved one bandaged arm around her narrow waist, bringing her closer.  She raised an eyebrow.  "Slayer healing powers," he explained somberly.  "Very restoring."

"How can you just be over it?" Buffy persisted.

Spike shrugged.  It hurt.  Everything hurt; his flesh felt like it had been turned inside out and if Buffy and Dawn were any indication, he was none to pleasant to look at, either.  "Me and her, we've got some history.  It's understood."

"Xander said you threatened to reach down his throat and pull out his ribcage, then roast his testicles over a low flame for a month.  What about burying that hatchet?  Metaphorical hatchet," she added hastily.

Spike blinked at her innocently.  "Dr. Phil says that it's important to embrace our emotions.  'Sides, Xander Harris is –"

"A tool," Buffy finished.  "I know.  You mentioned it a few dozen times.  And I'm really starting to wish Dawn had never taught you that word."

She subsided into what he knew would be a short-lived silence.  Sure enough –

"Did you kill Kehoe?" she blurted out.

"Would you care if I did?"

"Yes.  I would."

"He'd earned his death, a hundred times over.  Broke you in half, took you from Dawn – he shed Tara's blood more than you ever did."

"You don't get to decide that."  

"Oh," Spike answered a bit snidely.  "Is this where we have the 'do the right thing' conversation?  Do us a favor, love, and hand me a few more Demerol before we get started."

She remained where she was, watching him without reserve or rosy, infatuated ignorance.  

Slowly, deliberately, he shifted into game face.

"Take a good look," he told her.  "Got my bite back, I have."

"No kidding," she replied.  "Today we had Fun Sharing Hour at the Summers house.  Were you ever going to tell me?"

"Maybe," he said defensively.  "Didn't know what you'd do.  Didn't know what I'd do."  Fumbling, he sat up straighter among the soft, enveloping cushions.  "That whole bloody time you were away, Buffy – can you imagine what it was like, knowing I couldn't protect her from any ordinary, ill-minded human that came along?  From sweaty blighters at truck stops, who looked at her just a second too long?  Knew what they were thinking, I did.  And Kehoe – I couldn't save you from him.  Tried, but that stupid _chip," he spat the offensive word out, "kicked in so's all I could do was curl up like a whipped puppy.  If I'd had it out that night I found you –"_

"If you'd had it out," Buffy said softly, "you might not have been there in the first place."

He looked away.

"Did you kill him?" Buffy asked again.

Spike sighed.  "No.  Got a few licks in, but that's it. Kept my word; he was alive when I left him."  He folded his arms across his chest.  "Don't suppose you'll believe me."

Buffy digested it for a moment.  "I'll…have faith," she said finally.  "I'll have faith in you."

Nothing would have surprised him more, he thought dizzily.  He felt a smile break over his face, felt his demon retreat into human form again.  Felt the passion and hope and fear in her declaration.  _I'll have faith._

"Because you love me," he prompted her, not caring how needy he sounded.

Warm hands on his face, smoothing out the lines on his forehead until he relaxed.  "Yes.  Because of that," she whispered as his eyes closed.  "Because I love you, and Dawn loves you, and I'm going to trust you – trust you to puzzle out the right thing even when you don't want to, even when you don't think you can.  I'm going to trust you not to decapitate Xander or anybody else who annoys you."  She swallowed.

"I'm going to trust you to keep fighting on our side, even if I'm not around to fight with you."

His eyes opened then, and when he pulled her down to him there was an urgency in his grasp.  "That won't be for a long, long time," he promised, though there was something rough and raw behind his voice.  Then he was kissing her, because she was there, in all her vibrant, death-defying glory.  

"Have faith in me," he muttered, even while she snaked her hands beneath his shirt and brushed the taut muscles of his stomach.  "Make you proud, I will."

"I know, Spike."

"And I'll save you, Buffy.  A thousand times.  I'll have your back every night, every minute.  My Slayer's going to live forever – love you – forever – _Buffy…"_

Hours later, when she woke up panting and disoriented, he was there.  Arms wrapped tight around her, soothing her with a lullaby of love-words and nonsense.  "Hush, now.  Spike's got you.  It's all right."  He was propped up on his elbow, cradling her.

"Was…dreaming.  You were there."

He brushed damp hair back from her forehead.  "Was I?"

"There was a woman.  We were all tied together."

"Shhhh.  Sleep now.  Tell me about it tomorrow."

"It meant something, Spike.  It was a Slayer dream.  They always mean something."

"Good.  Time for our first outing as a couple, then."

She smiled against him, let his sibilant tones lull her into oblivion.  When Spike lay back down he held her just a bit closer.  

***************************************

Rodger Kehoe walked the floor of the warehouse, fear fueling every circling step.  

He'd done everything right.  He was sure of it.  Absconded with the necessary materials to this – this _shack on the outskirts of Boyle Heights, where no one would think to look.  Made the appropriate sacrifices, appeased the proper nether-powers.  And he was certain there had been no flaw in his performance of the spell.  He was nothing if not a stickler for detail.  _

But…it had gone off, somewhere.  There'd been an interruption; a bolt of cosmic lightning that had shorted his efforts.  He'd wanted his Slayer back – he was _owed, damnit.  All his hard work…_

He jumped at the sound of movement behind him.  Turning, he eyed his creation apprehensively.  

Something had gone off, indeed.

***************************************

The woman stood carefully, examining herself.  Ebony skin gleamed with a fine sheen of sweat; long, graceful limbs seemed to flaunt youth and vitality.  The hands, though…the hands were rough, calloused from her work.  She studied them for a moment, remembering.  Then she swiveled large almond eyes up to Kehoe's.

"Where's my coat?" she asked.

_The End.___


End file.
